


Shot: an Anthology

by BlazeRiddle



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anthology, Author is hesitant to add taggs because spoilers, Connected Short Stories, Detective, Gen, Mystery, Rating will change, Short Story, minor description of blood, minor description of violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:42:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 52,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23360392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlazeRiddle/pseuds/BlazeRiddle
Summary: I'm not sure where to start this account. Honestly, I've started writing this about three or four times, but I haven't really gotten it right yet.All right, let me start at the beginning, I think:The first time I met Shay, my boss had tied her to a radiator pipe.[[Updated monthly, on the last Friday of the month.]]
Kudos: 1





	1. First Meetings

**Author's Note:**

> I'm cross-publishing this on Tapas, where I upload little chunks every week. If you prefer that style of reading, [please feel free to check that out](https://tapas.io/series/Shot)!

The first time I met Shay, my boss had tied her to a radiator pipe.

I’m not sure if it’s the right point to start this account, but it is the moment I met her, and it made for quite a first introduction. Maybe one day, when I have time to do more research, I’ll properly describe what happened before, but for now, I’ll stick to my own account.

So, there she was, tied to a metal pipe, shouting abuse at all. I was sent in to look through her phone, but I needed her fingerprint to get in. (Hacking is much easier when you don’t have to.) I was scared to get close; her reputation preceded her. The men bringing her in had all come back damaged; she’d kicked one of them in the kidney so forcefully his piss turned orange. He went to hospital, together with the man she punched in the liver hard enough he turned into a sack of potatoes.

When I entered the basement, she fell silent. She glowered at me, studied me intensely. It felt like every move was documented, carefully processed, and filed away.

“You’re not a strongman.” Her voice was rough, but every syllable was laced with the stubborn defiance shining in her meadow-green eyes. “What do you want?”

Awkwardly, I waved her phone. The boss had suggested I didn’t talk, warned me that she’d find an _in_ any way she could.

Sighing, she flexed the fingers of her right hand and offered it up. It was trembling slightly, I noticed, but she didn’t seem to care. Exhaustion, maybe. Adrenaline leaving her system. Maybe she needed a good meal.  
“Call Carlyle,” she half-joked, “Tell him I’ll be home late.” She unlocked the screen, frowning at the time before I took the phone back. “He must be worried.”

“Boyfriend?” I couldn’t help myself. This Carlyle was as good a point to start as any.

She hesitated for a moment. “Landlord.” She made a face. “Groundskeeper? It’s complicated.”

I opened her text app. Her conversation with the mysterious Carlyle was a string of _almost home_ and _what’s for dinner_ and _pick up some carrots on the way home, Tesco’s got a sale_. His profile picture was of a man, sixty-odd years old, with messy hair and a three-day stubble. It was artfully edited; the only thing not in black and white were his piecing sky-blue eyes.

(Those eyes are so much worse in person, looking down at you, angry and cold as ice, or compassionate and warm as a summer’s day, but always, _always_ brimming with an undeniable intelligence.)

“Is he your dad?” I pretended to study the photo a bit better. “Is he your _daddy_?”

“No!” She made a gagging sound, “ _Hell_ no. He manages my estate. Long story.” She rattled her chain. “Please just text him to let him know I’m fine.”

“Will do.” I found my fingers typing out a message, already. “Should I tell him you’re chained to a radiator?”

“Maye leave that part out.”

I hit send. “Anyone else interesting?” There was a man named Trevor high up on her list, but I understood about one in ten words of that conversation. There was a picture of a baby, though.

“This yours?”

She was comfortable enough to roll her eyes. “I can’t see the screen.”

I showed her. “Cute baby.”

“Not mine.” She tilted her head, and something in my gut shifted as her laser focus homed in on my every movement. There was a moment, a brief breath suspended in time, before she spoke again. Something in her eyes changed, her shoulders relaxed, and her entire being seemed to shift, grow. Her next words came out quietly confident, certain.

“Do you realise your boss is a murderer and a mob boss?”

Of course I did. I tried not to react, looking at her passively, but I still had the creeping feeling she could read my reaction like a book. I was proven right as she continued speaking.

“Have you ever _seen_ the _filth_ he gets up to with your help? Or do you convince yourself you’re just the tech guy?” I could almost taste her disgust. (Her disgust _in me._ ) “Did you convince yourself that what you do is just white collar? There are crack addicts out there who would’ve been _fine_ without you. There are people on Brompton who _wouldn’t be there_ if it weren’t for you.” There was a fire in her, a fury that told me that she’d done her research and thought she was _right_ even when she wasn’t. She was giving me too much credit. I really was just a tech guy. I never did come in contact with drugs, let alone encourage anyone to do _crack_. And I’ve never _ever_ killed anyone. (Promise.)

“You’re wrong.” She was. She _was_. If only I could articulate why, in that moment.

She picked up on something in me. I’m not sure what; I don’t even know if she knows what she saw. If she does, she’s never shared it with me. Whatever she saw, though, it softened her.

“What’s your name?”

“I-” After a moment’s hesitation, I decided. “Aiden.”

“Aiden.” She nodded. “How long have you been here?”

Where was she going with this? “About five years.”

“And it’s keeping you here, isn’t it?” She almost sounded compassionate. “At first, it was probably just money, benefits, decent work hours. But now, it’s a five-year gap in your resume.” Her gaze didn’t move, but I could feel her focus briefly shift to my hands. “You need the money. A man like you, you’ll want to provide for your family. You _need_ to.”

I was warned she might do this, but it was still a bit of a shock to the system. Sure, most of it is guesswork. Sure, she just spotted my wedding ring. But still, the feeling of having your every motivation analysed is enough to push anyone off-kilter, if only for a moment.

“What is it then?” It wasn’t a question. “A wife, two children? Three? Nice median family, two boys and a girl?”

She was just guessing. I _know_ she was. There is no way she _knew_.

It was infuriating.

“I don’t have to take this.” I didn’t manage much more than a growl, but I did manage quite a dramatic turn and stomp back to the door, ready to slam it and leave her in the ringing silence.

She wasn’t going to let me, though.

“Aiden.”

I didn’t turn. Hand on the doorknob, I counted to ten, waited.

“You’re going to help me.” I could hear her swallow, her dry throat working for moisture. “You’re going to go up there, log into your computer, copy all your boss’s files, and send them to the person named Fox in my phone, and you’re going to tell them where we are.”

I frowned, “What, because you tell me to?”

“No.” Her dry throat produced little more than a croak, but the confidence was still there. I could feel her eyes on my back. “You will because I’m giving you a choice.”

The door closed behind me a lot quieter than I’d planned.

She wasn’t wrong.

At three in the morning, there was a sound at the front door. The boss had asked me to stay and dig through her phone; really, I just wanted to stay near and see what would happen.

The sound was loud in the stillness of the night, and it had me upright and out of bed within a minute. I waited, standing behind my door in darkness, keeping my breaths even as my heart tried to pound out of my chest.

The knock on my door, roughly three minutes later, scared the shit out of me.

It came again, a polite rap, rhythmic, almost cheery. _tap tap tap-tap tap_.

I opened the door.

Logically, I knew what to expect. Still, her face, just over a head below mine now that she was standing, made me startle. Her mess of hair was tied back, now, out of the way, and her companion had given her a zip-up hoodie big enough to drown in.

Her companion, now _he_ scared me.

He stood tall, I maybe had only half an inch on him, and he was _broad_. He had the physique of a well-trained boxer, wide shoulders, strong arms, the stance of someone itching for a fight. He filled out his faded brown-leather jacket and the black t-shirt underneath strained over his chest. And he _glowered_. He glared at me as if the only thing keeping him from wrapping his arms around my neck and snapping it like a twig was the woman standing between us. The barely-over-five-feet woman that was kindly smiling at me as if she _wasn’t_ holding the leash of a dire wolf.

“May I have my phone back, please?” Her volume was normal, regular, jarringly loud in the night. Not breaking eye contact with the mountain behind her, I reached to the small desk and grabbed it.

She took it from me.

“Come.”

I followed.

2

The mountain led us out of the front door and to a well-hidden car down the road. Silently, I climbed in the back as he shifted into gear. Shay sat herself down on the passenger seat, curled up like a teenager being picked up by-

“Is _he_ your dad?”

She chuckled, moved the rear-view mirror to look at me. The driver slapped her hand away and moved it back. “He _wished_.” She took out her phone, the screen illuminating the car. “This is Fox. He’s just a bit… protective.”

“I have a right to be.” Fox spoke for the first time, and he did so with a thick Northern accent. “You were-”

“I was _fine_.” I could see her typing, probably sending a message to that Carlyle. “I orchestrated my own rescue, didn’t I?”

Fox’s eyes flicked to me briefly. “That the guy?”

“Yeah, Aiden.” She tucked her phone away. “He does IT, so-”

“His data was useful.” Fox agreed.

“We got him?”

“Yeah.” His eyes darted back to me, kindness peeping through for the first time. “You got out just in time.”

And something inside me settled. “I know.” I relaxed into the seat. “Thanks.”

I don’t remember much from the trip there, but the house they took me to was _massive_. I don’t know much about architecture, but even I can tell the structure is at least three hundred years old.

The porch light was on.

Fox parked the car near the front door, and she got out with a deep sigh.

“If he stayed up…”

“He did.” Fox took a black backpack from the boot and closed the ranks as we walked to the door. “Made me wake him when I left.”

“And Peter?”

“Thinks you’re chasing a lead up in Oxford.”

“Good.” She turned the knob, seemed to be bracing herself before she opened it. “Let him.”

The door opened to a grand hall, the classic manor picture with double stairs at its centre. Just inside the door, clad in cotton pyjama bottoms, a ratty shirt and a thick housecoat and holding a cup and saucer, was Carlyle. I recognised him immediately. He was taller than I’d imagined, his hair a bit shorter, his face shaven, but those _eyes_. Those eyes pierced me even if they only swooped over me. They were a river of ice, a shock to the system. Shay didn’t seem bothered by them.

“Tea?”

She took it. In the brief moment before she took a sip, I could look into the cup. _Dark, no milk. Noted._

“How are you?” His focus seemed to be fully on her. Everyone’s was. She seems to have that effect on people. Small. Unassuming. The gravitational centre of any room.

“I’m good.” She half-shrugged. “Need an extra room for Aiden.”

“There’s a West wing room set up.” Carlyle took the saucer back. “We figured you’d bring back a stray.” Finally, his gaze landed on me for longer than a second. “There’s chamomile and some Lunesta on your nightstand. Please sleep.”

“I’ll try.” There was something in her tone of voice, almost a solemn promise, even though it seemed like such a simple exchange. It wasn’t until much later, after many middle-of-the-night calls, that I realised how simple it really _wasn’t_.

Carlyle seemed to be satisfied with it, and he focussed more on me. I shook his hand, he introduced himself. I told him my name. He turned on his heel and I followed, off to the West wing.

The room was nice, the bed was soft, but I lay awake for hours, wondering whether my life would ever be the same.

(It wouldn’t.)

I remember waking the next morning and making it to the kitchen, finding Carlyle, Fox, and a man I didn’t recognise. He had chestnut brown hair and as he stood to greet me, I noticed he was about as tall as Carlyle. When he turned to me, I noticed he had the same eyes, too.

“Ah, Aiden.” He shook my hand, “Peter Carlyle Junior.”

“Pleasure.” Nothing about him suggested he was the kind of person that they needed to protect, but he _did_ seem to be the only person in the room that had had a decent night’s sleep, and that would probably come in useful.

“A pleasure.” I took the liberty to get myself some coffee and peered into one of the pans Carlyle had cooking. He seemed to make a full English, baked beans, and fried tomatoes and all.

“Help yourself.” He smiled at me. He seemed to be in a good mood, relaxed, completely comfortable. As if last night was normal, as if picking her up from some dilapidated factory at thee in the morning was a weekly occurrence.

Fox seemed a lot more relaxed, too. He was watching me passively over the rim of his mug, more sizing me up than glaring me down. There was something in him that I recognised, a steel core I’d seen in some of my colleagues, a rock-hard resolve that only came after having stared into the abyss and walked away.

I sat down next to him and had my breakfast.

“The files you sent me were very valuable.” Fox swirled the last bit of his tea at the bottom of his mug. Casual. Okay, it was clear that the landlord and his son were in on _whatever_ was going on. “You could’ve sold them.”

“I didn’t.” I had a feeling he was going somewhere with this whole thing, but I had no idea where.

“Because Shay told you to send them to me.”

I frowned. “She’d help me get out.” Did she?

“Did she?”

Peter leaned against the counter on my other side, effectively cornering me in the open room. He seemed relaxed, but with his height and standing in front of the overhead light, he couldn’t help but loom. “Shay’s going to offer you a position here.”

Well, that was a bit of a leap. “Really?” I glanced back at Fox. “Why’d she do that?”

He put his mug down and shrugged. “She likes you.” Something buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled out a battered iPhone. He tilted it, shielded it from me as he typed.

“She’s going to be very charming when she offers you.” Peter stole a piece of toast from my plate. “You might not even notice you’re being talked into something.”

Carlyle chuckled at the stove. “That’s how we got here.” He gestured around the room, “All of us. No joke.”

“You can all leave at any time.” From the steady confidence in her voice, I was expecting her to look all smooth and suave and well-put-together, like the others. I had a vision of her leaning against the doorpost, maybe a bit sleep-ruffled but all in all charming and-

Well, the point is, she wasn’t.

She was barefoot, her toes flexing against the cold doorstep. She _was_ leaning against the frame, but it seemed to be more for support than for poise. Her hair was loosely tied away in a bun, with wisps pointing in all directions, and she seemed to be drowning in the shirt she was wearing. Her pyjama was still poking out from underneath.

She looked like living death. I wasn’t sure how _that_ was going to charm me into working for her.

Beside me, Peter straightened and marched her way. “You were _not_ in Oxford last night.” The thunder crossed his face only briefly, insincere, and he caught her as she moved away from the door. “The hell did you do?”

“I punched a bear in the liver.” She groaned as he deposited her on a stool. “He didn’t like it.”

Peter almost laughed. “You need to stop assaulting people.” His hands seemed to move on their own, making sure she was steady before he stepped away. “Coffee?”

“Please.” She slumped, shrunk. Even the glint in her eyes seemed muted. If it wasn’t for her face, I’d never guess this was the same woman as the confident rock of defiance I’d met the day before.

Carlyle plated some eggs for her. “Do you need something?”

She shrugged with one shoulder. “There isn’t a drug you can give me that’ll make me feel better.” She looked up, “Thanks, though.”

He pulled out an orange bottle of pills, anyway. “Take the edge off?”

She chuckled, a tired, broken sound. “Are you trying to convince me to take opioids?”

He shook the bottle. “Just one.”

“You are a drug dealer.”

“I’m not making you pay.” He handed her the plate, shook out a pill, then paused. “Number?”

She sighed. “Six over eight.”

He shook out another. “Come on.”

She held out a hand. “I bet you _used_ to be a drugs dealer, in secondary.” She frowned, “You’d’ve been really bad at it, though. You’re terrible at peer pressure.”

“Works for you.” He watched like a hawk as she swallowed them down, as if she’d make them disappear if he’d blink.

Something was definitely going on. Something I’d probably have to look into, some other time.

For now, Shay changed the subject, by turning to me and eyeing me up.

“What do you do?” She scraped her throat, “I mean, officially, what did you study? Because you’re _not_ an interrogator.”

I frowned, slightly nonplussed by the question. I hadn’t expected to walk into a job interview, that morning. “No, I-”

“Not even a little bit. You’re terrible at it.”

“ _Hey_.” I didn’t feel insulted, not even a little bit. “I studied IT down in Edenborough.”

She paused, seemingly caught up in something I said but moving on from it. “What’s the base salary for someone like you? Forty? fifty?”

There was a beat, and I realised it was a serious question. “A hundred.”

“Forty-seven half.” Fox showed his cracked screen, a job site up, the average shining bright yellow.”

She nodded, considering. “How old’s your kid?”

“Elisa is four.”

“Right, so-”

“Charlie is three months.”

“You have-” She frowned, obviously rearranging her information on me in her head. I didn’t realise at the time how rare that look was, the befuddlement of being caught wrong-footed. 

Peter nearly choked on his tea as he laughed at it. “You missed an entire _kid_.”

She chucked a piece of egg at him, and she didn’t miss _that_.

“Fifty thousand.” She decided, “It should be reasonable.”

I nodded. It would be.

“Great!” She smiled, “I’ll have Stafford set up a contract.”

It wasn’t until I was headed home, hours later, that I realised I literally had no idea what I was 

signing up for.

3

Peter Carlyle Junior, I learnt later that week, is not a man that needs shielding. He called me early that Thursday -just after I’d dropped Elisa off at school but before I went back to contemplating how I was going to tell my wife I had a new job- and asked me if I was willing to testify. He was all business, polite and a little bit grumpy because thanks to Shay and me he had to do the paperwork that came with cleaning up a small-time drug lord.

As it turned out, Peter was a DI, and the hole my data had blown into Fox’s case was enough to warrant a police investigation, too.

More importantly for me, he told me gruffly, my cooperation would mean protection.

I met him for lunch.

He seemed about a decade older than when I met him first, unshaven and messy, eyes tired. He was scribbling in a file, but he tucked it away when I approached, offering a smile.

“I ordered you coffee.” He let the file slip into his bag. “Hope you drink it black.”

“Black’s fine.” I sat down, pretended to glance at the menu. I’d have a chicken sandwich, anyway. “Bit informal for an interrogation.”

“You’re an informant, now.” He almost smirked at me. “This is just a casual informant’s lunch.”

“... With your new employee.” I almost laughed at the ridiculousness of it, but from what I’d seen, this was bordering on normal.

“With my _friend’s_ new employee.” He took the menu from my hands and glanced down. “Speaking of, Shay asked if you could come by tomorrow to talk set-up.”

“What-” I remember frowning at him, trying to formulate what I was going to say without sounding like a prick. “Do you know what I can expect, exactly? She didn’t give me any… briefing.”

He huffed. “Get used to _that_.” He put down the menu as a waiter approached with our drinks, ordering and waiting for them to be out of earshot before he continued. “She didn’t tell me either, but you wouldn’t be here if she didn’t have a plan.” He pulled a face. “Knowing her, it’s _fully_ legal and above board.”

“And she just forgot to clue you in, right?” I couldn’t help but smile. Whatever she had planned for me, it couldn’t be worse than working for a drug lord. Probably was more on the moral side, at least.

(It was, mostly. Legally dodgy and privacy-infringing and sometimes dangerous, but _infinitely_ better than working for a drug lord. Besides, thanks to her, I get to write all this, and that should count for something)

“What’s she like?” I asked, deciding to change the subject. “As a person? I have a feeling I didn’t get to see her best side, Monday.”

“She’s… hard to pin down.” Smiling, he pulled out his phone and scrolled through something. “She used to be the person to run headfirst into something and not tell anyone where she was.”

“Like getting kidnapped just for a USB stick of data?”

“Like that.” He nodded, “But also-” He turned the phone to me. “Well.”

There was a text conversation, the keyboard popped up to frame five messages.

_I just realised how cute corgis are_

_Don’t you dare try to steal one, they WILL kill you_

_And then dad will, for being stupid._

_Just one_

_I can outrun them, I think_

With a sweep, he popped down the keyboard and a photo appeared. A busted-up backpack lay open on a vaguely familiar red carpet, and a dog was sniffing at it, sticking its head almost all the way inside.

_DONT YOU DARE_

“That was last month.” He took his phone back. “Since I met her, she’s been… growing, I guess. Doing more of... _this_ stuff. Like I said, hard to pin down.”

Something clicked in my brain and I recognised the carpet, realised where I’d seen it before, and I sure as hell hadn’t expected her to be _there_ and be so casual about stealing a dog. “What does she _do_?” Why would she be _there_? “For a job, or a profession? Why was she-”

“Classified, I’m afraid.” He shrugged, “Officially, she’s a liaison for the Met. Unofficially-”

“Fox isn’t in the Met.”

“Exactly.” He sipped his tea. “I’m not sure how much I can tell you, but she’s had a… colourful life. Sometimes people call on her, and she answers. Sometimes...” He frowned, “Sometimes, they whisper her name, and she hears anyway.”

“Wait.” Our conversation paused as our food was delivered, and it gave me a moment to mull over his words. “Is she Holmes, Bond, or _Santa?_ ”

He smirked. “She’s Shay.”

He bit into his sandwich, decisively ending the conversation.

(As I’m writing this down, I realise that the entire thing seems needlessly cryptic, but with hindsight, I realise exactly what he meant. There’s no pinning her down, now with words. There’s no explaining what, exactly, she does. There’s just the _knowing_ , the feeling, the trying to articulate but not finding the words, like trying to explain why Mondays are mostly purple, and Thursdays are brown. It just _is_.)

The next morning, I found myself standing at the wrought-iron fence that secured her property, unsure whether to call her or to press the intercom button.

(That was another question I had, the immense property and infinite funds she seemed to have; one question of many. I’d made a list.)

In the end, I used the intercom.

Carlyle buzzed me in. I followed the winding path to the front door, and I found him waiting in the doorway.

“Good to see you again.” He shook my hand. “Shay’s just finishing up a phone call. Tea?”

“Please.” I followed him to the kitchen, willing him to answer my questions without me asking them.

“I can _hear_ you think.” He flicked on the kettle and turned to me. He _loomed_ , almost. I’m not used to people being taller than me, and he had about four inches. “You might want to reel it in, lest _m’lady_ takes offence. Or worse.”

“Worse?” She didn’t seem like the person who’d take offense easily.

“She is a detective.” He shrugged with one shoulder, his other arm moving to dig out two mugs and tea bags. “If I can see you _simmering_ , she can read you like a book. Better just ask.”

 _Fine_ , if he was offering, “She’s, what, twenty-five? How can she afford this place?”

“She has a young face.” He crossed his arms. “And a lot of good karma built up.” The kettle boiled, and he turned to pour the water. “Look, you’re an IT buff, and with the things she’ll have you do you’re going to find out anyway, but Shay has a hard time talking about some things that happened.” He pushed a mug into my hands. “Don’t push her.”

“You know what she wants me to do?”

He smirked, something enigmatic and mysterious. “Oh, I do. I know a lot of things.” It was gone, then, replaced by something much more open. “I read her diary.”

(He didn’t.)

4

She entered the kitchen almost fifteen minutes later, looking a bit frazzled and stressed but a lot better than last time I saw her, her phone still clutched loosely in her left hand.

“Olivier needs you to kill about some import stuff.” She started, not even glancing in my direction.

“Call.” He flipped the kettle back on. “What about?”

“Some wine barrels.” She sighed, “Apparently it’s a bit legally itchy because it used to be alcohol.”

“All right.” He pulled out another mug. “Not a big deal, right?”

“No, but-” She groaned, “Tris called, after. He’s convinced someone is- Actually.” She looked at me, finally. “Do you drive?”

I do. “Yes.”

Carlyle scoffed. “How high is your _idiot_ tolerance?”

She rolled her eyes at him, took the mug of tea. “He’s misguided.” She fully turned to me. “Are you up for a little test drive? We can talk business in the car.”

The decision was already made for me, it felt like, so I just nodded.

“You’ll need a decent PC.” She’d brought a file but hadn’t opened it since we’d stepped into the (incredibly cool, more expensive than anything I could ever afford) car. (Later, while on a trip to the Isle of Man, I learnt exactly why; she explained it to me in detail between heaves over the ferry railing.)

“I’ll leave the details up to you, but from what I’ve found, you’ll need a decent processor.”

“What am I doing, then?” I was relieved to finally ask it knowing I’d get a straight answer.

(Though I should’ve known, even then, _nothing_ she ever did was straight.)

“Day to day, it’ll be information gathering.” She pulled out a paper, glancing at it for a brief moment. “I’ll give you access to some databases, and I’ll need you to gather intel on some people.” I glanced over, and I noticed that the paper was a small list, about fifteen names.

“That’s it?”

“I might also need you on side projects, or jobs like this.” She tucked the paper back. “I’ll always ask if you want to come along, though, and you’re always entitled to say no.” She frowned at something. “I’d rather you be honest than be miserable.”

(I should’ve realised, then. I should’ve realised how much she was laying bare with just that, but I didn’t pick up on it. I guess I’m a bit of an idiot, too.) (Not nearly as much as Tristan, though. No one is.)

“Got it.” I assured her, “So, Tris?”

“Thinks someone is tracking is computer, should be a quick job for you. But he’s a minor government official, so you might be able to plant a backdoor.”

“Hence doing the exact thing he fears.” This seemed to be one of those legally dodgy things Peter had mentioned.

“Yes.” She shrugged. “But I doubt he’d notice.”

“Do you think someone _is_ tracking him?”

“I doubt it.” She rolled her head, and something _popped_. “He calls me at least twice a month with something like this. He’s a bit...”

“Misguided?”

“Oh, he’s a dim as a broken lightbulb.” She smirked. “I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of agreeing with him.”

I realise something now that I didn’t then; at the time, I wrote it off as mean-spirited joking. Now, though, I realise she doesn’t _make_ those kinds of jokes. She was just stating a fact.

Tristan is really, really dim. And I was about to find out for myself.

If anyone would ever ask (not that anyone would), I’d say that first case with Tristan was a bit like my first day of work at the supermarket, when I was fourteen. They’d told me I’d be stocking shelves and maybe work the register, but during my first shift, I found out how much of the job was actually smiling politely and pretending customers weren’t idiots.

Dealing with Tristan took me _right_ back.

He was objectively handsome, tall with blond hair, blue eyes, and a chiselled jaw, but _without_ a shirt for some reason. He hugged Shay even though she made a face at his sweaty torso, and for a moment, I wondered whether I should gear up to punch him. (Or give him a talking-to. I haven’t punched anyone since I was ten, and I probably be terrible at it.)

He introduced himself to me with the same joviality, though, and it made me realise he’s just one of _those_ people.

Shay introduced me as her new IT person, and he brought us to his computer.

Then, just waited expectantly.

Shay sighed. “Tris, this is _a lot_ easier if _you_ log in.”

“Sorry.” He bent over me and almost slammed his keyboard. he was blocking my view, but from the noises, it seemed that his password was something along the lines of _qwertyuiop_.

“Did you-” Shay groaned, “That’s your password?”

“Clever, right?” He beamed, proud of himself. “You told me it’s better to pick something long than something complicated.”

“Yeah, but I- I didn’t- _merde_ _._ ” She rubbed her eyes, roughly. “I meant your mother’s maiden name, or your favourite show, not-” She took a breath. “Never mind. Someone’s tracking you?”

“Yeah, I- Oh!” He slapped his forehead. “I didn’t offer you tea!”

“We just had some.” She waved him off, “Your story?”

“Right, my stalker!” He pulled out his phone, flicking through his camera roll. “So, she gave me a shirt-”

“Whoa, back up.” She leaned against the desk but stood up when the weight settled on her shoulder. "Back a few steps. _Stalker_?”

He had the brains to pull up a chair for her, at least. While I half-heartedly looked for any traces of anyone else while I looked for a way to access the system later on, I caught about half of the conversation, but it went slow enough (surprise) for me to follow. Tristan apparently worked at a gym, and a girl that _used to_ frequent it had suddenly followed him on social media, and started showing up again, and then that morning, she’d shown up with a shirt he’d been looking at the night before, and he’d freaked out.

I tuned 

She groaned, a long, fed-up sound. “Did you give her password advice, by any chance?”

“No, I-”

“Guys.” I frowned up at my new boss. I’d found a good place to build in a back door, but there was one _minor_ issue. There was already something there.

And it was wide open.

Shay took one look at my face and discerned _something_. “Oh, crap.”

Tristan frowned, not quite catching on yet. “Yeah, she’s a really nice girl, but I just-” 

“Not that.” Shay had jumped up and was peering over my shoulder. “You were right. She _actually_ broke into your computer.”

“And checked his search history.” I traced her steps, found her fingerprints everywhere. Sloppy. “What now?”

She shrugged, “We go after her.” She thought for a moment, “Get me her phone number.”

Wait, what? “Do you have a plan?”

“Maybe.” She glanced at Tristan. “Yes.”

“Oh, is it a good one?” Tristan seemed _far_ too excited. “Like the one you told me about with the rope and the paint bucket and that thing you stole from Home Alone?”

“Better.” She smirked, the plan obviously blooming in her brain. “You get to be _in_ this one.”  
“Oh, fun!”

5

The plan, as I recall, was simple. I didn’t check Shay’s notes, but I imagine they look something like _Tris + stalker = confession._ A formula even Tristan could understand. What would be a _bit_ more difficult was actually building a case. I’d tracked the intrusion back to a girl names Stacey Addams, but for it to hold any weight, we needed her confession.

Trouble was, Tris was the one talking to her.

Shay had procured a wire from somewhere, and insisted he put on a bulky shirt so she could hide it. Now, as we were making the short trek to the nearest pub, she explained the plan to him one more time, in hushed tones.

“I feel bad about this.” I had no doubt he did, he’d repeated it about four times since they’d left his home. “I don’t want her to go to jail because of me.”

“She won’t.” Shay assured him, again. “Not if everything goes according to plan. Which is…?”

“I’m going to tell her I like the shirt.” He remembered, “And I’m going to ask her where she got it from. And then I’m gonna ask her why she thought I’d like it.”

“Right. She nodded, “Just be your charming self and talk to her.”

“That’s good.” He smiled, nervous. “I don’t know how to be anyone else.”

“And if anything happens, Aiden and I will be there to help you out.” She patted him on the shoulder, had to reach up quite a bit to do so. “Don’t look so nervous. We got this.”

“If you say so.” He grabbed her hand on his shoulder, squeezed it briefly. “Your plans always work, Doc.”

(They don’t, not always, but neither of us knew at that time.)

The pub was calm for a Friday afternoon, and we easily found a booth while Tristan sat down at the bar. Shay sat facing the door, leaving me to keep an eye on the bar. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do.

“Relax.” She didn’t pull her eyes from the door. “This’ll be an easy one. Nothing’s going to happen.”

“You seem awfully sure of that.” I felt like I was about to be in a shoot-out. I never thought I’d have to consider escape routes in a pub.

“You ran a background check, yes?” She met my eyes before looking back out. “She’s not a fighter, and there’s _no way_ she’s carrying a gun.”

“So what’ll happen?” I was almost disappointed I had to forget the shoot-out. Maybe one day. “Worst case scenario?”

“She wants to impress Tris.” She pulled out a small notebook and a pen. “Even if she suspects anything, she won’t make a scene.” She motioned over her shoulder. “She’ll make it to the ladies’ room, maybe leave from there, but I’ll be able to intercept her.”

“What are you _doing_?” I eyed the scribbler. It looked well-worn, and she opened it half-way, but I could not for the life of me think what she’d be jotting down at that time. Exit points, maybe? Was she going to make a detailed note of the conversation?

“Looking busy.” she opened to a page of scribbles, seeming to read the last line, and continuing below. “We’d stand out, just sitting here.”

“You stand out more, now, pretending to write like that. This is a pub.”

“It’s steno.” She dug through her pocket and pulled out a tenner. “Get us something pubby, then. Diet coke for me.”

I decided to push my luck, “No nibbles?”

She pulled out another ten. “Go wild.”

Ten minutes after I’d gotten our drinks and a pork scratchings, she suddenly perked up. The book closed, her hand resting on it protectively, and she stared at the door with a strange focus.

Obviously, she’d seen something. “What’s-”

“Shh.” She eyed the clock above the door. “Something's wrong.”

“Because she’s late?” I checked my watch. We still had five minutes until the meeting time.

“No.” She emptied her glass. “She’s early. She’s here.”

“Wha-” On instinct, I turned, locking eyes with the blonde I’d seen on her profile pictures. Trouble is, she saw me, too, and she clocked that something wasn’t quite right. For a moment, she seemed frozen, her gaze flicking between me and Shay. Then, an eternal second later, she was gone.

“ _Shit_.” Shay was up before I really registered it. “ _Shit,_ I was wrong.” She grabbed me, pulled me out by the wrist and dragged me along until I found my feet. She was surprisingly strong.

“She’s a runner!” She let go of me as soon as we were out the door, sprinting to where we saw her turn a corner.

I followed, of course.

My stamina isn’t great, and back then. it was even worse, so there was no way I’d keep up to them, but I tried. I came very close to catching up once or twice, but when they swerved left into an alley and past a skip, I lost them. There was a scuffle, a _slam_ against the skip, a yelp, and I turned the corner just in time to witness Shay pin the woman to the ground by sitting on her.

“We just want to _talk_.” She huffed, slightly out of breath. “ _Stop_ squirming!”

Stacey buckled like a wild horse, face wrought with anguish. “You _set me up_!”

“ _No_ , I- argh!” Shay pushed down, seemed to steel herself for something. All I could do was watch.

“ _Stop it_.”

It was pure, ice-cold, rock-hard steel that poured from her lips, and _everything_ stilled. Stacey, me, the traffic behind us probably. I remember the shiver that ran down my spine, the feeling that I had to straighten my back and _behave_. That voice, _that tone_ , and suddenly I knew why everyone listened to her. It wasn’t the charm, there were no smiles left here, no gentle merriment, and it chilled me to my core.

Two words. Rock-hard ice water, and everything stilled. All that was left was laboured breathing.

“I don’t want to hurt you.” She started, warmth seeping back into her voice. It was almost gentle, in comparison. “Just let me ask a few questions.”

Stacey almost sobbed, all fight having left her body. “I don’t want to go to _jail_.”

“You won’t have to.” I watched as she sat back, climbed off, pulled the other up. “Just talk to me, okay?” She offered an almost kind smile. “You recognised me in the bar, didn’t you?”

“Yeah.” Stacey sniffed. “I saw you in the gym a few times, you’re famous.”

“I know.” The smile she gave then _was_ kind, and warm, and it was getting harder and harder to believe that she could be cold, too. “And you saw Tristan, too, didn’t you?”

“He worked on me a couple of times.” She nodded, “I had a knee injury.”

“And you fell for him.” She’d sat down cross-legged, as if this was a slumber party. _Huh_. “I understand, he’s very sweet.”

“And I thought- but he didn’t-” She was properly crying, now.

“I know.” She wrapped an arm around her. “I know. You know, you did some impressive hacking, if it had just been me, I wouldn't have found you.”

(Convenient, how she left out that she wouldn’t be looking.)

“Thanks.” Stacey sniffed.

“Where’d you learn that?”

“Internet.” She wiped at her eyes. “I found some tutorials, figured I’d give it a shot.”

“Clever.” She let go, turned the woman so she could look her in the eyes. “You listen to me, okay? You don’t need Tristan.” She paused for a moment, let the words sink in. “He’s a sweetheart, a real good guy, but you don’t _need_ him. You’re smart, and resourceful, and one _hell_ of a runner. All you need is _you_.”

“You-” She huffed, rolled her eyes. “Bit cookie-cutter, isn’t it?”

“So are Newton’s laws, doesn’t make it any less true.” She dug through her coat, pulled out a business card. “This is a friend of mine, David. Go talk to him someday, tell him Shay sent you.”

“Thank you, I- oh.” Her eyes landed on her shoulder. “You’re bleeding.”

Shay glanced down, and I looked as well. It was true; at her right shoulder, a crimson patch had formed the size of a two-pound coin.

“It’s nothing.” She glanced at me, assured me as much as her. “You slammed me into the dumpster a bit weirdly, opened an old wound. Nothing serious.” She stood, made a small noise as she pulled the fabric away from her skin. “Though I should change my shirt before Tristan sees me, he’d be worried sick.” She held out her good hand to Stacey. “Promise to call David?”

“I will.” She smiled, “I promise.”

“Good.” She turned, tossed the keys to me. “Come on, Carlyle will kill me if I don’t let him patch me up.”

I looked at the growing spot of red. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I’m good.” She waved it off, like she’d bumped her shin, like she wasn’t bleeding from a wound that looked more serious by the second. “Old war wound. This happens sometimes.”

“Does it hurt?”

“It will, in the morning.” We’d reached the car, and she got in. Aside from her arm, everything seemed to be in working order. “It still aches a bit from where your boss tied me to a pipe.”

“Ex-boss.” I smirked at her. It seemed important, at that moment, to remind her which side I was on. I was on hers, now, the side of the _good_. It was a giddy feeling. “What happened to it, anyway?”

She was silent for a moment. Almost subconsciously, her hand came up to rub at her shoulder, missing the spot, tracing the line of a scar that _just_ poked out above her shirt. Then, her voice carefully nonchalant, it came out with practiced ease.

“I was shot.”

“I’m sorry.”

It shocked me into silence, but something started to turn in my head. Slowly, creaking with rust and puffing with dust, gears started to turn. It made sense. Everyone around her treated her like she’d been through a lot, like she’d lived her life and deserved a rest. Peter acted as if she was some gumshoe PI, weathered and tired and never playing it by the book. Carlyle was basically her private nurse, giving her food and making sure she drank and counting her pills, and- that number system they had. And Fox. At the time, I hadn’t met many shady mysterious government agents, but even then, I realised it wasn’t normal for one to calmly break you out of imprisonment in the middle of the night. 

They treated her like they knew something. Like they were in on this massive secret, on this elusive history that passed just by the rest of us normal people.

There, on that silent car ride back, I resolved to change that. I resolved to document her life, find out whatever she’d been up to before I met her, and put it out for the world to see. That notebook of hers would be a good place to start.

So I did.


	2. Family Values

I have never seen Shay angry.

I thought I had, but then Peter regaled me with a story he’d sworn to never tell, and I promised to never pass on. But, it’s three in the morning, he’s left his notebook in my possession, and I’m bored and curious and a strong believer that every story should be told. Especially one like this.

It started as a semi-regular case. I remember the first day of it; I’d come into work only to find it almost deserted. Carlyle informed me that they’d had a phone call around seven that morning, and they’d sped out with nary a word. It would happen sometimes; they’d be called out in the middle of the night, or early in the morning, and they’d rush to get ready and out the door, talking about urgencies and rain washing away tracks, already speculating as they flurried through the house. But on those days, Carlyle would have an amused glint in his eyes, picking after them with fondness.

That morning, there was nothing like that. There was a resigned sadness in his eyes, a grim set to his jaw, a tenseness in his muscles that seemed hard to shake. They were rare, those mornings, and they’d often spell days of thunder and darkness and difficulty. A look that could only mean one thing.

Carlyle confirmed it, with three pained words:

“It’s a kid.”

It’s always harder when there are kids involved. Hours were longer, nights were shorter, and no one rested until there was some sort of resolution, and often it left a bad taste for weeks after. Oftentimes, they called her is as soon as they got the alert, not wasting any time on useless things like _protocol_ or _preserving dignity_. This time, there’d been a car waiting for them by the time they got ready.

A seven-year-old boy, Chase, had disappeared from his bedroom. His bed was made, his window locked, his lain-out clothes untouched.

They surveyed the scene from the doorway, Chase’s mother standing right behind them, nervous. There was something she saw in that room, something that made her frown deeply, her face only darkening as she inspected drawers and cupboards and opened the wardrobe.

“I’d like to see your bedroom, please.” She barely glanced at the mother as she pushed past her, marching across the hall.

Chase’s father blocked her way, though, with his broad body. He wasn’t tall, barely four or five inches taller than Shay, but it was enough to loom over her. She seemed unimpressed.

“Sir, please-”

“Don’t you need a warrant or something to prance around the place?”

“Not if you let me pass.” Peter was standing at her back, but the glower she gave him was undoubtedly impressive. “Sir.”

“I don’t have to-”

“But most people _do,_ considering I’m looking for _their kids_.” Peter could hear her glare in her voice. It was beginning to get that icy quality that meant she was one wrong word away from pulling rank and verbally pushing him out of the way.

He’d let her, in this case.

The man stepped aside, though.

She nodded, “If you don’t want to watch me root through your stuff, I suggest you wait outside.”

“You _insolent little_ -”

She caught his wrist before his fist could gain enough speed. Vaguely, Peter registered that she’d grabbed him with her right arm, knuckles while and thumb firmly pressed against the inside.

“I’d advise _against_ that.” She dropped the hand, stared him down.

He couldn’t resist piping in. “Trying to punch a vet would be a _spectacularly_ bad idea, wouldn’t it?”

Realisation dawned, like a bucket of ice. “Yes.” He stepped back, in the direction of the stairs, the direction of _outside_. “Yeah, it would.”

Shay pushed past them, into the bedroom. Chase’s mother followed, agitated.

“Close the door.” She glanced back at Peter, something stormy in her eyes. He did.

She moved to one of the walls, where a handful of picture frames were reflecting the sun. “Tell me,” She started, studying the frames, “Tell me if there’s somewhere I shouldn’t look.”

“Oh, I.” The woman seemed startled that the gruff, quiet detective was suddenly talking to her. “Ehm. There are some… things in the bedside drawer.”

“Got it.” She pointed at one photo. “Who’s the girl?”

“Oh, she’s my daughter.” Chase’s mother smiled, “Clarissa. She moved out last year, has a job in Slough.”

“From a previous relationship?” She snapped a picture of the photo. “She’s a bit older than Chase, no?”

“Her father and I separated when she was three.” She looked wistful. “We were alone for a long time before I met Chase’s dad.”

“Do you have her address?”

“Of course.” She dug through a drawer, pulled a booklet from beneath a stack of drawings. “Are you going to visit her?”

“We might.” She glanced at the page the woman held out to her, took a picture. “If we see reason to.”

Her hand shot out, grabbed Shay by the wrist suddenly and tightly, like a castaway clinging to a lone piece of wood.

“You will find my son, won’t you?” There were tears in her eyes, desperation in her voice. “Please, Doctor Klinger, you _need_ to.”

She swallowed, face as neutral as she could get it. Peter could see the indecision in her eyes, though, the urge to make a promise she might not be able to keep.

“I need to take a look at your fridge.”

“Okay, shoot.” Peter started as soon as they were in the cab, on their way to Slough. “You’ve been on edge since we got here. Tell me why.”

(There is a certain direct approach that the Caryles can get away with that no one else could ever dream of. There’s no warming up, no skirting around the subject, and, surprisingly enough, barely any shouting matches. I envy them.)

She leaned forward to close the partition. “Child abduction case, Pete.”

“ _More_ on edge. And now we’re headed to Slough. Come on.”

She thought for a moment. He let her.

(We’ve all learned to let her, at some point or another.)

“What would you do,” Her voice was soft in the small space, “if you visited Betts one day, and May cowered behind her, and their arms were bruised?”

A certain feeling of dread settled in his stomach. “I would kill whoever did that, ‘cause Morgan would never.”

“I know.” She fumbled with her phone, pulled up the photograph. “But what if he did?”

“You think the dad’s abusive?” He tried to fit it into what he already knew. “Why?”

“Tell me what you see.” She gave him the phone. “Take your time, we have an hour.”

Whenever she’d say something like that, it would pay to do as she said, so he looked.

It seemed like an ordinary family photo, the four of them standing, smiling, on some sort of beach, backlit by a clear blue sky.

“It-”

“Look at _her_. Tell me what you see.”

He looked again, better. “The mother is wearing long sleeves.” He noted. “So is Clarissa. It’s summer.” His eyes looked down at the boy. “He’s not.”

“Look at her hand on his shoulder.”

He did, but he knew he was missing something. The hand was just _there_ , resting on the boy’s shoulder, thumb loosely hooked behind the base of his neck.

She guided him through. “Think about how you’d put a hand on someone’s shoulder.” She prompted. He realised. _Not like that._

“Now think about who you’d hold like that.”

He met her eyes in silent understanding. He didn’t want to answer her, though, because he knew it was already clear in his gaze; _You_.

(The way he touches her is always so gentle, so considerate, all soft pats and gentle bumps and comforting hugs. It stood in stark contrast to the way he roughhouses his sister, the way he twists her arm and calls her an idiot. Instead, it’s _come here, idiot_ and an opportunity to hide from the world.)

“It’s flimsy.” He pulled a face.

“I know.” She shrugged, sad. “But you asked what was wrong.” She curled up on herself, turned to the window, retreated into herself. Conversation over, apparently. Peter was fine with it; silence is not a rare thing with Shay, and they still had plenty of time before they arrived in Slough. He wouldn’t be surprised if she snuck in a nap before they got there.

(And neither would I; for a person who’s always on guard, she falls asleep surprisingly easy, and she’ll sleep _everywhere_. I found her snoring stood up against the door to my office, once.)

She stirred, cracked one eye open before she fully let herself slip.

“I need you to not believe me.”

He couldn’t help but smile. “I know.”

2

She awoke just as they slowed to a stop. She stretched, yawning, and groaned as her bones popped into place. Peter has never told me, but from looking at him in moments like this, anyone could tell that he loved them.

“Welcome back, _Thorn rose_.” He chuckled, “You ready to rock?”

She glared at him briefly as she rolled her shoulder. “Always. Don’t call me that. You ready?”

He smirked. “Let’s roll.”

The apartment complex was pulled up from modern red brick, with a metal callbox and matching name plaques next to the door. Peter rang the buzzer three times, but no one answered.

Shack checked the time. “How much trouble are you in if we sneak in?”

Peter sighed, watched her finger hover over the call button below his hand. “Find the boy.” He decided, “We can worry about legalities later.”

With a smile, she smashed the button. “Watch this.”

There was a soft _click_. “ _Hello?_ ”

“Ah, hi.” She bounced with suppressed glee, but her voice didn’t echo it. “Ehm, hi. This is embarrassing.” She took a breath. “This is Clarissa, from the apartment above you? I spent the night at a friend’s, and I locked myself out, could you buzz me in?”

There was a grumble on the other line, and the door buzzed as it opened.

“Thanks!”

Peter groaned, “That should _not_ work as often as it does.”

“Know your neighbours.” She smirked as she slipped past him. “Come on, apartment three-five.”

“Incorrigible.” He huffed a laugh as he made sure the door was closed behind them.

There is something you should know about Shay. Her past is eclectic and mysterious, and there are parts of it that even I can’t figure out. Sometimes, when I ask her about something seemingly innocent, her face will go blank, her posture will close off, and I will not see her for days. Sometimes, she laughs and tells me an improbable story, and I’m left trying to figure out what is real. As a result, I know several things: firstly, she knows how to pick locks, and can do it almost silently and quite fast; secondly, she always carries around a set of picks, wherever she goes; and thirdly, I have _no idea_ why she knows this, when she learned, or who taught her. I asked Carlyle about it, once, but he just smiled sadly and I decided to drop it.

Needless to say, the door to the apartment didn’t really slow them down.

The place was small, a living room that just fit a sofa and a TV, an open kitchen with a tiny table, and two doors to their right that lead to a bedroom and a bathroom, presumably.

It was as tidy as her parents’ place, some scribblers and a notepad stacked in a neat pile on the table seemed to be the only sign someone was living there.

“Tidy.” Peter stepped further into the room, “You could learn something.”

Shay opened the door to the bedroom. “I prefer messy.” She scanned the made-up bed, the closed wardrobe, the mopped floor. “Makes it much easier to find clues.” She glanced over her shoulder. “You look at the scribblers, I’ll see if I can find something in here.”

“Look for a diary.” Peter was already leafing through the papers, but they seemed to be her attempt at budgeting. “Or photos.”

“You look for a _life_.” She rolled her eyes. “Not one of your _lackeys,_ Pete.”

“I’m a police officer.” He’d moved to rummaging through drawers. “Pretty sure the good guys don’t have lackeys.”

“ _Pretty_ sure police aren’t always the good guy.”

He gasped dramatically. “How _dare_ you.” He closed the drawer. “Anything on your end?

She’d found the diary, but the drawer was _just_ too small to get it out comfortably. _Smart_. “Yeah, but Clarissa knows how to protect her personal stuff, at least.” She jimmied the drawer, but there was no way she could force it open further without breaking it. “Do we have budget for breaking things?”

He stuck his head around the doorframe. “Not after I have to bail you out for breaking and entering.” He watched her work. “What’s wrong?”

“Drawer’s jammed.” She stuck her arm in as far as it went, but she couldn’t find the problem.

Peter leaned down next to her, peering past her arm. “You pull the front,” he decided, digging through his pockets for his knife, “I’ll try to work the dowels loose.”

“What’s a-” She pulled her hand free, grabbed the front board and pulled. “What’s a dowel?”

“The wooden connect-y bits.” He worked the knife between the two boards, prying it open until she could pull it off. A dowel fell to the floor.

“These things.” He smiled at her.

“We call ‘em _deuvels_.” She reached in for the diary and its keys, clicked open the lock and handed it to him. “I think we hit the jackpot.” She reached in for the rest of the drawer’s contents. “The secret emotional stash-jackpot.”

She pulled out some papers, a small stack of pictures, and another scribbler, which landed on the floor between them.

She flicked through the pictures. Photos of her, some holiday snaps, the same family picture, some polaroids that seemed more recent… Her eye was caught by one in particular.

(There was a copy in Peter’s notebook, so for once the description isn’t second-hand.)

A boy, probably Chase, was smiling brightly into the camera. He seemed to be sitting in the lap of a man, about forty years old, who was sticking his tongue out to the camera. Next to them, her arm outstretched out of frame and her smile as bright as Chase’s, was Clarissa.

And best of all for the two of them, she’d written the date at the bottom.

“This was taken yesterday.” She showed him.

He studied it. “Background’s dark.” He closed the diary. “Last night, maybe?”

She gathered the photos together. “Want to make a bet on who the man is?”

“No.” He stood, held out his hand to pull her up. “But I’m willing to bet on where he lives.”

“London.” She decided, “Though he’s probably somewhere in a caravan in the Lake District, by now.”

“I’m thinking Slough.” Peter propped the front against the drawer, cleverly concealing the gap. “Why else would she move?”

She hummed, looking down at the girl’s bare arms.

3

Of course, whenever they need to verify _anything_ online, they call in the resident IT guy. Happy I could do anything to help, I set to working down their list as fast as I could. During their car ride, I managed to track down the man in the picture as Clarissa’s father, and I won Peter a fiver by discovering he’d bought a three-bedroom house in Slough a few months ago. I’m not sure if it was much of a victory, though, going by the pensive silence in the car.

“We’ll be headed to the station after lunch.” She likes giving me semi-specific time frames, made her feel a little bit like a real boss. “I want a file with all the ways we can contact them when we do.”

“Got it.” It was a good thing we were video calling, because I could see her hesitate as my hand hovered over the _end call_ button.

“Look into Chase’s dad, too. See if he has a record.”

Peter disconnected the call.

“You’re still on that?”

She shrugged. “I wanna be proven wrong, but-”

“But you admit you’re biased?” He ached to reach out to her, and she could probably tell (because she always _can_ ). She placed her hand between them, a silent invitation.

“Of course I am.” She met his eyes. “So are you, growing up with _your_ parents. You don’t _see_ it.”

“I know.” His hand covered hers. Her fingers were cold. “I’ll try to stay objective.”

“Thank you.”

They sat deep in thought for the rest of the ride, his fingers wound around her wrist, her pulse the only thing he registered besides the roaring of the engine.

“So, working theory.” They’d commandeered a conference room, their take-away lunch sitting half-eaten on the table and hung my printed-out documents on a wall, along with the photos. “Clarissa took her little brother without her parents knowing and ran.” 

“With help from her father.” Peter pressed a sandwich in her hands. “Who’s just bought a house in Slough.”

“Which suggests pre-planning.”

“Also suggests they don’t plan on running for long.” She frowned, “A three-bedroom house. You don’t buy a three-bedroom house if you plan to move across the country months later.”

“But you don’t buy one when you’re a single guy, either.” 

She took a bite, chewed as she thought. “What are they doing? We know where they’re going, eventually, they can’t hide.”

“Maybe they don’t want to.” He grabbed his soda, slurped out the last bit, smirking at her face as he did. (Loud sounds, she told me once. Eating sounds, disgusting. The sound of the last of a milkshake rattling through a thick straw, according to her, sounds exactly the same as someone trying to snort a Rice Crispy op their nose.)

“My theory still holds.” She nodded, “Maybe they just wanted to get him out of there, keep him safe and get the police involved at the same time.”

“Or maybe they’re just not that smart.” He shrugged. With a well-aimed throw, he tossed the cup in the garbage. “The girl’s, what, nineteen? Practically a kid. A teenager, _famously_ unorganised.”

“I was organised.” she defended herself, “At that age, I was making a career for myself.”

“Yeah, well on your way to getting shot at.” He rolled his eyes, “Hate to break it to you, but you weren’t a normal teenager.”

“Neither is she, I don’t think.”

“Not if you’re right.” He bumped her shoulder with his, gentle. “Come on, let’s go through those contact details.”

There are certain aspects of her job that Shay detests with a burning passion, and the biggest one of that is _paperwork_. She can say it with such a scowl, as if she was a child talking about broccoli or Brussels sprouts. (Except, of course, she liked both of those things, and had apparently done since she was a little girl.) (I wish my little girl was like that.)

She hired me _specifically_ to lessen the amount of paperwork she had to do, but sometimes, on some cases, there was no hiding from the gritty and _boring_.

They spent about twenty minutes constructing the perfect message, something short but not too concise that conveyed both _you need to come home_ and _we just want to help_ , both _you’re not in any trouble_ and _watch out, we’re the actual police._ Then, they dropped it on any form of communication they could find, DM’ing it, emailing it, leaving voicemail messages reading it out. Then, all they could do was wait. Wait, and try again every thirty minutes on the dot. Peter almost felt sorry, mailbombing a child.

While they waited, they went over all the papers I’d gathered for them. Chase’s father didn’t have much of a record, but he had one citation a few years ago for public inebriation.

Still, something didn’t sit right with her.

“He doesn’t have to be an alcoholic.” Peter didn’t look up from his paper, but she knew he was paying attention. “He _could_ just be an arse.”

“Or a normal person.” She glanced at him. “Remember, you’re impartial.”

“Yeah, he _could_ just be a distressed father, refusing to help the _one_ person capable and willing to find his son _for free_.” He looked at her properly, now. “I’m impartial, but not _blind_. Something’s going on.”

“There’s something in the bedside drawer we weren’t allowed to see.” She remembered, “You think they’re-?”

He hummed, “Shouldn’t it be a basement, then?”

“An ominous attic?” She put her pen down.

“Either way, you’d need more equipment for that, not just a bedside drawer.”

She froze, her brain skidding to a halt at his factual tone, at his usual open ease. “Have you-”

“No, but I’ve been on the internet.” His face was open, honest, reassuring, and about two seconds away from a fit of giggles. “I’ve seen the Fifty Shades trailers.”

“ _Just_ the trailers?” She looked at him, then apparently decided she didn’t want to go down _that_ road while looking at the kidnapping of a child. “Never mind.”

He shuffled through the papers. “It’s been around eighteen hours.” He glanced at his watch. “We should probably call social services. Even if you’re wrong, his sister kidnapped him. They need counselling.”

“You do that.” She thumped her head on the table, groaning. “I wanna keep the lines open in case she calls.”

“Or her dad.” He flipped through some papers and dialled a number.

“I doubt it.” She lifted her head, just slightly. “We appealed to _her. She’s_ vulnerable. _He_ is…”

“A man?” He smirked at her.

“I didn’t say that.” She rolled her eyes. “But he _does_ seem more stable than the nineteen-year-old who just _stole_ her brother.”

“Fair.” He put her phone in speaker, the on-hold music filling the room. “They need to change this system. This _sucks_.”

“You need to get yourself a direct line to some counsellor.” She quirked a brow at the phone. “A counsellor would solve _most_ of your problems, really.”

“Shut up.” He thumped his head on the table with a loud _thud_. “That’s against _protocol_.” He glared at her. “You fix it.”

She offered him one of those sugar-sweet fake smiles. “I’ll put it on the list.”

His sneering reply was cut off as her phone rang.

4

Peter hung up as she answered, motioned for her to put it on speaker. A soft voice echoed through the room.

“ _Hello?_ ” It was the girl.

Shay took a deep breath, “Clasissa?” She asked, “I’m Shay, I’m here with my friend Peter.”

“ _Are you from the police_?”

“We are.” Peter piped in. “We’re looking for your brother.”

There was a silence on the other side.

“You know where he is, don’t you, Clarissa?” She rubbed her eyes, already tired. She could tell this was going to be a long, hard conversation.

More silence.

“Clarissa, this is a phone call.” She tried not to sound _too_ cynical. “We need you to say something.”

“We want to help you.” Peter cut in, glaring at her. “But we need you to work with us.”

They could hear a muted conversation, a man’s voice rumbling in the background.

“Clarissa?”

“ _You’re not going to arrest us?_ ”

“I promise I won’t.” Shay glanced at Peter, “We can just meet somewhere, just talk. I can buy you a coffee.”

There was a chuckle. _Improvement_. “ _Why not a drink?_ ”

“Because _presumably_ , you’re still driving.” She rolled her eyes.

“ _Will Peter be there?_ ”

“Probably.” He nodded, even though she couldn’t see him. “Shay’s not allowed to go alone.”

She poked him in the ribs.

“ _You didn’t promise_.” She seemed to be steeling herself. “ _Peter didn’t promise he wouldn’t…_ ”

She chuckled. “She’s smart.” She whispered, turning away from the microphone.

Peter rolled his eyes. “I won’t arrest you if you come talk to us.”

“And if he _does_ try anything, I will punch him in the face.”

(She would. I’ve seen her take a swing at him more than once. She doesn’t try to be gentle, either, though she _does_ give him enough time to dodge.)

(I’ve _never_ seen him take a swing at her, and I doubt I ever will.)

Clarissa laughed, “ _Okay, then. We can meet._ ”

“Where are you right now?” Peter poked her, and she cringed when she realised what he meant. “I mean, whereabouts do you want to meet? Where are you comfortable?”

There was a long silence. Just as Shay moved over to check if the connection was still there, Clarissa spoke. “ _Can I call you later?_ ”

She glanced at Peter, decided for them both. “Call within the hour and you might convince me to make it dinner.”

“ _All right._ ” She sounded less suspicious now, at least. “ _Thank you, Doctor._ ”

She hung up, leaving Shay to stare at the screen. Peter reached over to shut down the call.

“You all right?”

“I introduced myself as Shay.” She frowned deeply.

“That you did.” He waited, patient.

She met his eyes, the _are you daft_ shining heavily in them. “She called me Doctor.”

“Oh,” Eyes wide, understanding dawning. “Her mum called you Doctor. Davies introduced you.”

She hummed, “Maybe we should hold off informing the family.”

He nodded, “After all, we can’t know _for certain_ , and we wouldn’t want to give false hope, now, would we?”

“That would be the absolute worst to do in this situation.” She smiled, grateful. “Try the social services again?”

He sighed.

Eventually, Clarissa settled on a coffee place in North-London, out of the way from any main roads and obviously chosen because it wasn’t anywhere near her escape route. They met her at ten the next morning, sat at a table in a corner, away from the others.

She frowned as they sat down at her table. “Are you Mr Carlyle and the Doctor?”

Peter pulled out his ID, but Shay just nodded. “Call me Shay.” 

Peter offered one of his magical disarming smile. “She’s a bit salty she’s not a time traveller.”

“You don’t know that _for sure_.” She pushed him, he humoured her and moved with it.

(It’s a thing they do, almost purposely, when they meet new people; an effort to be kind, to humanize the mystic presence that is the dynamic duo of mystery, dispel the fog of rumours and legends surrounding them. Peter makes fun of her, she doesn’t mind, everyone laughs.)

As everyone, Clarissa chuckled.

“Order anything you want.” Shay opened up the menu. “I have a business expense budget, if I don’t hit my target, they cut my funds.”

“She’s not kidding.” He glanced at the card, “Get a steak.”

Clarissa seemed hesitant, Peter reported.

(Probably because she thought it was coming out of Police funds; in fact, the _they_ ready to cut all funding for fancy lunches was Carlyle. Apparently, he was trying to achieve _something_ with this, though I never figured out what.)

They ordered. No one got steak. There was a long, barely comfortable pause as they waited, filled with stares and measuring-up and a silent battle of wills about who would pounce first.

Shay bit first, just as Peter cut into his chicken. A glint in her eyes, she leaned forward, hands steepled above her plate.

“So where’s Chase?”

Clarissa, to her credit, only paused for a very brief moment. “He’s safe.”

“I know.” She stared her down. “I trust you.” Her face contradicted her words, as it often does.

Peter popped a piece of chicken in his mouth, leaned back. Watched.

“Where is Chase?” Her head tilted just a tiny bit, an increment. Nothing in her expression changed.

Clarissa blinked. “He’s with my dad. Somewhere _safe_.”

“Tell me about him.” She narrowed her eyes. “Your father. Prove to me he’s _safe_.”

Clarissa thought for a moment, a smile slowly growing on her face. “I only reconnected with him a few years ago. Mum always told me he was a dick, but… he’s nice.” She shrugged, “He’s made mistakes, but he’s gotten better.” She seemed to relax, talking about him. “He’s been… very kind.”

“Unlike your stepdad?”

Peter had expected the stunned silence, had placed a mental bet on it. He’d expected the way her eyes widened, the shock that always came when Shay asked something, matter of fact, voice still kind, and _dug_ her fingers deeply into an open wound.

He’d half-expected the colour draining from her face, the ashen look of recognition, even.

What he hadn’t expected was the tears.

From either side.

5

The documentation of what happened next is a bit scarce, written in matter-of-fact bullet points in one journal and an angry scrawl in the other. Shay’s note keeping is bad at the best of times, with all the left-handed smudges and the sudden foreign words or shorthand thrown in, but here, it’s almost non-existent. There are a few things I’ve managed to divulge from comparing their notes, though.

Firstly, Peter finally got a hold of someone at Social Services. Secondly, they put them in contact with Clarissa and her father, and assured themselves that Chase was _really_ safe and doing okay. Thirdly, they went back to ask the parents a few more questions.

What happened next neither wrote down. I only know it because Peter told me.

(Probably better that way; I’m pretty sure that _someone_ would’ve gotten into trouble had there been written evidence.)

It started friendly enough; they’d rang the doorbell, and Chase’s mother had opened, teary-eyed and subdued, and with what he’d learned from Clarissa, he saw, too.

(“An’ she was wearin’ long sleeves, you know?” He told me, half-drunk as he was, “But it was warm, an’ I noticed because it was _different_. She was wearin’ _blue_ , and then green, an’-” After a long silence, in a desolate voice, he told me what had _really_ clued him in. “Those eyes. They all- their eyes, Aid.”)

(It broke me a little, like it did him. I’m just lucky I didn’t have to see.)

They were let in, led to the living room, offered a place to sit and a cup of tea. Shay stayed stood, her cold demeanour belying the rolling storm beneath. Peter had told her to be careful tread lightly, let him do the talking, but as always, she didn’t listen.

“We have news for you.” Her face was carefully neutral, but he could hear _it_ in her voice. “You and your husband. Where is he?”

“Upstairs.” The woman gestured, “Shall I-?”

“Please.” Peter offered her a kind smile, waiting for her to retreat upstairs before he dared to eye his friend. “Are you-”

“I’m good.” She assured him, “Though I’ll be glad when this is over. We have enough?”

“Plenty.” He tried for a smile, but circumstances didn’t allow. “We have an expert’s testimony.”

“Not to mention Clarissa’s.” She took a deep, calming breath. “And her mom, if we convince her.”

“Right.” He mirrored her. “Just don’t lose your head, okay?”

She stayed silent. I learned early on that she’d never make a promise she couldn’t keep.

Chase’s father came downstairs, face thunderous, worry swimming in his eyes. Peter remembered thinking _at least he cares_ , but it wouldn’t last long.

“Do you have news?” He focussed on Peter, ignoring Shay almost completely.

“Yes.” She spoke before he could answer, “Please sit down.”

“Oh, _my_ -” his mother choked, tears welling up. “Did something-”

“No.” She assured her, voice still kind. “But please, sit down.”

His father stayed standing, defiant. “Did you find him?”

She nodded. “He’s with Clarissa.”

If Peter had to decide a precise moment things started to go downhill, he told me, he’d choose that one.

The reaction of Chase’s parents was polarised, to say the least. His mother crumpled in relief, sagged into herself as her whole body released the tension it’d been holding. His father, on the other hand…

“That _insolent little_ -”

“Hardly, she’s nineteen.” Peter noticed a change in her immediately, something defiant and feisty and like nothing he’d heard before. Something about this was different than the day before. This wasn’t just a standoff for access to a room, this was… because she _knew,_ he realised, and she wanted to make sure he knew she knew.

The way they were facing, at his position just behind her shoulder, he couldn’t see her face, and he was pretty sure he didn’t want to. He readied himself, for _something_. 

He could see the man’s glare, though. “She’s still my-”

“Your _what_?” She was ready to fight. “Your daughter? Because-”

“Don’t you _dare-_ ”

“They’re with social services right now.” Peter jumped in, desperately trying to de-escalate. “After, you can-”

“You _what?!_ ” he stepped forward, and Shay blocked his way. “You _have no right-_ ”

“He has every right.” The hand on his chest was deceptively lax, and her other was waving Peter further back. “He’s a Police Officer, he’s mandated to report any-”

“You should learn to _shut up_!” He balled his fists raised them but seemed to remember what would happen if he tried to hit her.

Peter felt incredibly out of his depth.

“You should learn _not to hit women_.”

Snarling, he dove for her. Peter remembered hesitating, torn between dodging out the way and stepping in, shielding them from each other, but by the time he’d come close to a decision, it’d been too late.

His open fist had connected, barely, leaving a scratch on her cheek. She jumped out the way, kicking at his knees. Her kick connected _more_. He buckled.

Fuelled by the red-hot fire of rage, she grabbed him, small hand wrapping around his neck, nails digging in over his arteries. Using the leverage, she brought her whole body against him and _pushed_ , shoulder-first, until he hit a wall with a thud and a small groan.

He fought, but her right hand was a fierce defender and his strength waned as he gasped for breath.

She had him pinned.

She started whispering, hissing at him, and Peter had to move closer to understand her. He got a good look at the growing fear in his eyes. He was seeing something in her face, and it made him fear for his life.

Peter looked, and he saw, too.

He didn’t describe the look, he couldn’t. Told me it’s one of those things that you need to see to believe. But there was a fury in her eyes, a fire burning brighter than the sun from a pit darker than black holes. Her face was set in nothing but grim lines, all life gone.

He understood, then, what Fox saw when he looked at her.

The eyes of a killer.

Her voice was cold, frigid as she glared at him. “You _get off_ on that, _you creep? Punching down?_ ” Peter could see how white her knuckles were, how hard she was pressing down. “You _that insecure_ that you _need_ the people who _trust you_ to _fear_ you? You that _tiny_?”

He was gasping, now. Peter had to do something.

“Shay-”

“You’re a _worthless waste_ of _whatever_ air you’ve breathed, you-” There was a string of words Peter didn’t recognise, but he did pick up on the French inflection.

He grabbed her shoulder, desperate to stop it. “Shay, don’t.”

“I should _kill_ you for the _shit_ you put your family through, you _fils de pute_.”

Peter grabbed her free hand with his, pulled her back. He almost felt bad, grabbing her bad shoulder like that.

She moved with him, but not before she spat the man in the face.

“Feels good, _huh_ , when someone does it to you?”

Peter turned her to him, gave her his best glower to hide the fact he was scared shitless. “Outside.”

“He-”

“ _Outside_.” He put as much authority in it as he could. “I’ll handle it here. Be with you in a minute.”

To her credit, she went.

Cases like this are hard on everyone. Even just writing this down, I’m debating if I shouldn’t delete the whole thing, let it rest in the ether, gather dust and get buried. But things like this, they lash out like unchecked weed whackers, leaving wounds everywhere they touch. Stories like that need to be shared.

(Shay has a saying, sometimes, when it fits her; shared sorrow is half sorrow. I’m not sure if I agree, but it won’t do any harm, at least.)

There’s no magical happy ending, here. There very rarely is. By the time Peter rounded off his business and got outside, Shay’d disappeared. It had started raining while he was working on his paperwork, and when he came home, he found her, soaked, in the kitchen.

She didn’t talk for five days.

Chase’s family, in case you were interested, didn’t have their magical solution, either. Last I’ve heard, his father was sent away for a few years, and his mother had gotten mandated counselling. Hopefully, they will be all right in time.

For five days, I had to endure Carlyle’s chattering without anyone talking back or stopping him, had to endure Peter’s moping and walking on eggshells. Then, eventually, at the end of day five when we were all growing tired of the silence, Peter brought her a cup of tea.

(Let’s just be clear, this wasn’t a special occurrence; everyone _except_ Shay makes tea regularly.)

Seemingly pulled from deep thought, she looked up at him. We, not expecting anything, stood in the background.

“Thanks.”

(She didn’t mean the tea.)

He smiled, warm like he ever did with her. “Anytime.”

(Neither did he.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...And here's May's story! Let me know if you liked it, and remember, you can contact me here, on Tapas, or on [Tumblr](https://shot-series.tumblr.com/) and if you want to read this story episodically, on a weekly basis, you can [subscribe to it on Tapas.](https://tapas.io/series/Shot/info) This is extra fun in June, as this month's story is extra long and will be updating twice a week!  
> See you soon!  
> -x- BlazeRiddle


	3. Of Foxes and Flags

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wrote this for Pride Month, as I felt it was fitting to introduce certain aspects of my characters this way. :)

Mr Fox is an interesting figure.

He’s not _always_ at the mansion. In fact, he never shows up on his own accord. Instead, he’ll call and Shay will come running, or he will meet her in a café and swoop her away. Still, the others act as if they like him, as if he’s done _something_ to get into their good graces. Maybe he’s bought them a giant chocolate egg before I came in.

Shay seemed to have some sort of history with him. Her life before she came to London is shrouded in mystery, but it certainly seems that they’ve known each other for ages, like they’ve pulled each other through hell. When he calls, she comes running, but she sends out one word and he’ll be by her side, and stay there until he’s _absolutely sure_ she will be alright. Even if that does mean breaking her out of a compound at three in the morning.

I just think he’s scary.

I tried looking him up, of course. It is my job now to run background checks on people. I can find that he has a job in the SIS building, but I couldn’t find anywhere what position he held. To be fair, that’s probably worse, when it comes to Secret Intelligence. There’s a reason he’s built like a bear and prowls like a wolf, a reason why he so often wears a thick leather jacket that could conceal _anything_ underneath, even in the middle of summer.

Mr Fox is something I don’t have the clearance to know, and Shay is completely accepting of it. He calls, she comes. She cries out, he’s there. It works, in its own way, and no one talks about it.

Except, of course, that one time they did.

It was a Thursday, if I remember correctly, early in the morning. I’d just sat down at my computer, and Shay was taking me through my list of names to run a check on, when he came in, phone in hand. He seemed agitated.

“I need to ask a favour.” he made a face, “And it might be a big one.”

“Right.” Shay jumped up. She seemed to be in a good mood, that day. “Outside?”

Of course, I followed them.

They sat down on the porch, Fox’s long legs folded up uncomfortably. He stared at the gravel for a long time.

“This is a personal thing, isn’t it?” She studied him. The sun shone through his short hair.

He sighed. “A friend of mine is organising a boat float for the parade. He’s been getting letters.”

“Related to the float?” She scooted just a bit closer. She seemed to know what he was talking about.

“Yeah.” He shrugged. “We wrote them off as bigoted hate, but…”

“Something changed.” She filled in for him, “What was it? An address? A name?”

He pulled something from his inside pocket. “That’s his kid.”

She stared at the photo for a long time. Scanning, I knew, looking for any detail. “This is a school.” She handed it back. “How’d you get involved?”

“He’s an old friend.” From my vantage point, I could just see his frown. “He knows I can pull some strings.”

“And you decided to come to me instead of contact the police.” I was _fairly_ sure she didn’t roll her eyes. She would’ve with anyone else, but her voice was too kind. “Explain?”

“The situation is… delicate.” He stretched out in the sun. “He doesn’t want to frighten anyone else by bringing in uniforms.”

“Some extra presence might be enough to scare them off.”

“I know, I-” Fox sighed deeply. “He’s stubborn. I told him. Hopefully, if you take a look and tell him, he’ll listen to you.”

“All right.” She nodded. “What do you want me to do?”

Fox stayed silent. I itched to move closer, just to make sure he wasn’t signing or signalling anything, but I was sure I would be noticed if I did.

“Sa- Fox, what is it?”

(I made a mental note: Sam, or Samuel, or something starting with _Sa_.)

He pulled out a leaflet. “There’s a meet tomorrow. Music, slow dancing, possibly waltzing… lots of drunk people.”

“And you want me to… go undercover?”

“Just have a look.” He sounded as if he was almost pleading with her. I understood why. Shay does _not_ go out. “Ask around. See if you can learn something.”

“Make a night out of it?” She huffed, “In your dreams, you twat.”

“It’s not even in a club.” He assured her, “It’s in a pub, a small one. With a bunch of people dancing to classics and reminiscing about the eighties. You’ll like them.”

“You calling me _old_ , Fox?” The humour was returning to her voice, buying time while she tried to find an out.

“You’re an old soul, Fee.” He bumped her shoulder, gentle. “Well?”

She considered it for a moment. I could hear the crinkle of the leaflet.

“You’re gonna talk to the barman.” She decided, “Show him my photo, tell him so serve me virgins on the sly. And _you_ -” Her voice got louder, and with a shock I wondered how I could _ever_ think I could hide from them, “You’re going to find blueprints of that pub, mark me the exits, and get them to me by tomorrow morning.”

I straightened. “Got it.” I resisted the urge to salute as I turned. _Really_ , I could’ve known.

I left them to it, hoping Fox would send me at least _some_ information on the pub.

He did, eventually, presumably after he and Shay had talked for another hour or so. I set straight to work.

I wasn’t really sure what to expect from Shay getting ready to go _out_. Fox had been right about the pub; it wasn’t anything fancy, or clubby, and the event seemed to be relaxed enough. Still, for the next day and a half, I had to witness her pick out her outfit with a scary precision, the kind she usually reserves for her master plans. It took me a moment to realise what was going on, but when it clicked, it made sense. She was _getting ready_ , putting together a disguise. Pretending to be someone who _goes out_.

The questions were odd, too. Working with Shay, I’d gotten used to the non-sequiturs, but they were usually the mildly disturbing but logical my-boss-is-a-detective questions. These questions, though, were _What’s the most impressive cocktail_ and _how_ does _one drink a Sex on the Beach_ and, most disturbingly, _do I need to chat someone up to fit in?_

I tried to answer them as best as I could, but to be fair, it’s been a while since I’ve been at anything resembling a club.

(Peter, unsurprisingly, managed to give a lot more advice.)

2

Eventually, she decided on an outfit. The following evening, she poured herself into some jeans and a sweater that looked very soft, and put on a set of boots that put on a set of boots that almost made her tall. She looked… well, like someone who regularly went out. Mission accomplished, I’d think.

I gave her a lift to the pub on my way home, and got a glimpse of the others filing into the building. Most of them were around Fox’s age, a few older, but I spotted a few people in their twenties, as well.

It seemed safe.

She spotted my look when she hopped out, and rolled her eyes. “I’ll be fine.” She was quick to assure me. “I know my exits, and _you know_ I’ll call people when things go south.”

I nodded. I had the strange feeling it’d be like this in twelve or so years, dropping my daughter off at a party.

I’m not looking forward to it.

She moved to close the door, but paused, studying me for a moment. “Do you… want me to text you when I get home?”

I considered it, seriously thought about it for a minute. “No,” I decided, “Fox’ll wake me if you get in trouble.”

She chuckled, shook her head. Slammed the door behind her, and I watched her enter the building before I drove off.

(Her notes from that night are weirdly precise, almost as if she wants to prove to everyone that _nothing happened_ and _everything was fine_. Anything I couldn’t read, she was happy to fill in later. It’s a rarity, really; she usually believes that the logs should be enough. But that’s probably a discussion for another time.)

The bar was already packed, and she immediately made a beeline for the bar. The barman spotted her, glanced down, then conjured a glass with a dazzling smile.

“What can I get ya, miss?”

She handed over her card. “What’s the most colourful thing you got?” She sat herself down, leaned her back against the bar and surveyed the room. “I want something big, and happy, and expensive.”

The barman chuckled, “Don’t go out much?” His hands were moving on his own, already preparing a drink. “We’ve got the rainbow paradise, should be flashy enough.” He scribbled something down on a napkin, plopped it down and sat the big glass atop it. “Name for the tab?”

“Shay.” She took the napkin. There was a crude fox drawn on. “Yeah.” She slipped it into her pocket. “Thanks.”

“You looking for anyone special?”

She let her eyes roam over the patrons. They were chatting, some of them obviously close friends. A few had glanced back at her as she entered, but nothing had stood out to her, yet.

“Not really.” She took a sip, the sickly sweet concoction hitting the back of her throat. “Just browsing. I’m pretty sure most of the men here aren’t interested.”

“You never know.” He looked like he wanted to add something, but someone at the other side of the bar drew his attention. Shay took the opportunity to slip away.

She found a spot on a sofa against the wall, secluded in a little alcove, from where she surveyed the entire room. There were a few people that stood out enough for her to write down; a young woman sitting alone at a table, staring at her drink; a shaggy guy sitting at her old spot at the bar, just looking at everyone like she’d been; a man in his fifties who seemed to weave in and out of the small dancing crowd, picking random partners to dance with for a second or two before he disappeared again.

She tried to keep her eyes on him, but he seemed to have a knack for camouflage. once or twice, she spotted him near a booth, downing a drink or scanning for a new target. Once, he met her eyes just before disappearing again.

Then, he popped up next to her.

She jumped. As I’ve learned the hard way, it’s really difficult to sneak up on her. It’s nearly impossible to do so when she’s paying attention to you.

It was the moment Shay realised something was _off_ about the man.

“Hi!.” He smiled widely, chuckled for no reason. “Can I get you another?”

She glanced at her nearly-empty glass. “No thanks.” She pulled a face, “Pretty sure if I have another, my teeth will fall out.”

“Oh, yeah, they’re killer.” The more he talked, the more uncanny his accent sounded. Californian, she decided, though she could never be sure. “A water, then? Something else?”

He wouldn’t give up, she could tell. “Surprise me.”

She watched him walk away. He’d obviously carefully picked his clothes, his backside carefully accentuated by his jeans and his button-up barely hiding his deceptively muscular body. He was obviously on the prowl.

Why was he talking to her? She shouldn’t be more than a blip in the background. She’d _planned_ on being nothing more.

A mystery, indeed.

He returned within minutes, two drinks in hand, and sat down next to her.

“Here.” He handed her one, his big hand almost holding hers as he did. “Barman insisted this was yours.”

“Then it probably is.” She took a sip. Apple juice. “Thank you.” She could feel him looking at her, studying her, and she decided to confront him head on.

She met his gaze, stared back.

He finally spoke again. “You’re not here for the music, are you?”

“Are you?” She looked out to the dance floor. “You seem more interested in the people.”

“It’s a good combination.” He shrugged, “You new here? I haven’t seen you before.”

“A friend tipped me off.” She decided not to meet his eyes, wasn’t really keen on seeing the curiosity there. “I figured I might as well.”

“You _curious_ , then?” She could hear him sip his drink, decided to mimic him. He was sitting too close for her comfort.

She considered the question. “Quite the opposite. I’m fairly convinced he considers this a _learning opportunity_ , or something.” (She made a side note that read _and he would the fucker_.) (Her words, not mine.)

“He with you, then?” She was watching him again, and he made a show of looking through the crowd. “You’ve been alone all evening.”

“You’ve been watching me.” Smiling, she took a large sip of her _whiskey_. “If you’d watched closer, you’d seen me coming in alone.”  
He shrugged. He lay his hand along the back of the sofa, leaning closer. “I figured a woman like you wanted to make _clear_ she’s available.”

“Well, you figured wrong.” She downed the rest of her drink and shifted to face him fully. She took her time to take him in. Well-cut hair framing a square face, still handsome with the signs of his age drawn on it. His eyes shone intelligent above well-defined cheekbones, and the most defined lines were the ones framing his smile.

(These, I must admit, _are_ my words. I’ve had the pleasure of meeting the man, since, and I have to say, his presence could sweep anyone off their feet.)

She narrowed her eyes at him. “What _are_ you doing?” She wondered aloud, the real question clear in her tone. _You are aware this is a gay bar, right?_

He jumped up, suddenly, and emptied his glass. He slammed it down and twirled, holding out his hand to her. “Dance with me.”

She took his hand, let him pull her up. “Are you trying to _seduce_ me, sir?”  
“I’m _trying_ to get you to dance.” He pulled as he stepped back, catching her and holding her to his chest as he walked backwards onto the dance floor. “Nothing more, I promise.”

Looking up into his eyes, she could see he was lying.

3.

He swayed with her through the tail end of the song, watching her face closely. She couldn’t convince herself to look away.

“Do you ever dance?”

“Not like this.” She forced herself to relax. His hands, though keeping her in place, were gentle around her. He was close enough that she could smell his cologne, and their chests were inches apart, but he radiated a calm confidence that assured her she could break free whenever she wanted to.

(That, and I’ve seen her take down taller, more impressive men; a single dancer is not a challenge to her.)

She looked between them, to their joined hands and up to him. “I’ve had classes, once. But never this…” She struggled to find the word.

“ _Intimate_?” His mouth was right next to her ear. “That’s all right. It almost never is.” The song faded, and he pulled back a little. “Do you swing?”

“What?” She moved with him as he pulled them into a new position. vaguely, she registered that the others were clearing a space around them.

“Swing. The dance.” The music set in, and his spine straightened, as if the music pulled his strings taut. “Just follow my lead.”

Before she could really process what was going on, he’d swept her off her feet.

Literally.

The music was something fast and jazzy, and he moved them both in time with the beat effortlessly. He danced her around, moved her back and forth and up and down and she could focus on little else than his open expression, his eyes locked with hers, his confident smile. He seemed to watch her closely; when she winced as he pulled her right arm too hard, he immediately switched to her left. He swooped her up, lifted her like she was air, twirled with her as if she was weightless. At the apex of the song, with a great flurry, he lifted her above his head and all but _threw_ her, her stomach flipping over herself as he let her go for a brief moment. With practiced ease, he let her land, catching her and holding her in her arms as the music faded. At the final tones, he dipped her, smirking broadly at her flushed face, his arm strong where it supported her back.

“Any other man would kiss you right now.” His breath was hot on her face.

Her heart was pounding. “Any other man would get kicked in the nuts.”

He chuckled as he lifted her taking two steps with her. “You’re a good dancer.” He let go and to her surprise, she found herself right back at her spot. “Good at _following leads_ , Ms.”

“Shay.” Someone had refilled her glass, and she gratefully downed it. “Shay Klinger.”

“Tom Donnelly.” He shook her hand, strangely formal after what they’d done, and bowed slightly. “A pleasure, Shay.” He looked around, then leaned forward. His next words were whispered directly into her ear.

“You should tell that old fox to come with you, next time.”

And with that, he was gone.

When I came in the next day, I found her at my computer, fuming. She was buried deep within my research programme, banging her head against the desk as the PC showed the familiar _access denied_ screen. She turned to me, defeated.

“I’m out of practice.” She admitted, standing up to let me at my desk. “I need to run a Tom Donnelly, American, lives ‘round here now.” To my surprise, she sat down on the ground next to me. “Could you-?”

“On it.” I surveyed what she’d been doing and picked up where she left off, but I didn’t make it much further. “Someone you met last night, then?”

“Yeah, something like that.” She looked tired. I doubt she’d had any sleep. “Just check him, okay?” 

I tried to, I really did. But whatever I did, I kept running into the same wall I’d hit whenever I’d look up Fox or Shay herself.

“What’s wrong?”

I wasn’t sure what to tell her. “His information is locked.”

“All of it?” She was pushing herself up to standing, pulling out her phone. “Try finding where he lives.”

I shrugged. “I can try, but-” I gestured at the screen.

She nodded. “I’m gonna make a phone call.” She was already looking at her address list. “Fox will be here in an hour or so. See what you can do.”

Before I could respond, she was gone, back into her own world.

I don’t know who she called, but she was on the phone for forty-five minutes and then went to sulk silently in the kitchen until Fox showed up.

Then, she went _off_ on him.

She didn’t seem to care that I was still in the room. Normally, she’d wait until she was alone with someone or take them somewhere private before she started shouting, but sometimes, very rarely, she decided it needed to be _public_.

“Do you know,” she started, deceptively calm, “Who I called this morning?”

Fox looked like a deer in the headlights. I wish I’d taken a picture.

“Do you know who I needed to _ask_ for a _favour_?” Her volume was rising as she advanced.

Fox decided, probably unwisely, to speak up. “Was it-”

“I met _Tom Donnelly_ last night.” Realisation dawned, and along with it _fear_. “Do you know who I had to _call_ to get _clearance_ to find out who _he_ is?” She was all but shouting, now. I was trying not to smirk. “I had to call _your boss_ so I could convince _him_ to tell _me_ that _your_ friend is ex-CIA. You know how _fucking_ annoying it is to owe _your boss_ a favour?!”

Fox smirked as he realised she was running out of steam. “I work for him.”

“But you don’t owe him.” She glared. “Now I have to _save the Middle-East_ or something.”

“You’ll be fine.” He assured her. “What did you think about Tom?”

She looked back at me. “Outside.” She was still glaring. “You’re gonna fill me in on _everything_.”

And he did. I didn’t follow them that time, but I managed to get a look at his file later, as Shay slammed it down on my desk and told me to check _everything._

It was a long day.

4

The thing about Shay, she tends to be incredibly bull-headed. When she’s bitten herself into something, when something has piqued her interest, she’ll see it through until wherever it comes to an end. I suspect it might be a left-over from her army days, when bull-headed powering through had kept people alive.

Tom Donnelly had her attention. Fox had assured her that whatever was going on probably didn’t have anything to do with his past. If it did, bigger institutes had to get involved, anyway.

Shay agreed to help Tom out, just to keep an eye on everything. Tom seemed to be hell-bent on _actually_ making her help, because after the weekend, he called on her to help pick outfits for his volunteers. To everyone’s surprise, she went.

To no one’s surprise, Fox went with her.

(I don’t think any of us knew, at that time, what had happened in the pub. I know _I_ didn’t, though Peter and I speculated that she’d broken Tom’s nose. It wasn’t until later that we discovered how untrue that was.)

(It cost me a fiver when we found out the truth.)

As it turned out, Tom’s plan was less putting together a uniform and more seeing how much merch he could get away with. Apparently, he’d gotten a few boxes of samples, and he was happily unpacking them onto every table of the pub when they arrived.

“Sam!” He warmly shook his hand, then turned to her. “Shay! Great you could make it!”

She looked around at the boxes. “That’s a lot of stuff for a volunteer’s outfit.”

“And you’re a good dancer for a war medic.”

She wasn’t even surprised. “ _Veteran_ war medic.” She rolled her shoulder. “I’ve had time to practice.”

Fox walked to one of the boxes. “What is all this, then?”

“Flags, mostly.” Tom handed him a box cutter. “We’re not talking about the elephant in the room?”

“We’ve skinned the elephant and sold it for parts.” Shay walked to one of the piles he’d already unpacked. “Is _anything_ here for the volunteers?”

“I thought I could let them choose.” He started laying out different shirts on a separate table. “You finish opening the boxes, I’ll start sorting.”

She sighed dramatically but grabbed a box. “I feel like I’ve been roped into something.”

“You have.” Fox smirked at her. “Now you know how it feels.”

(Of course, when she does it, there are far less merch.)

After about an hour of sorting things into piles, Fox stepped out to answer one of his mysterious phone calls. (I’m still not entirely sure what’s up with those; he has a separate phone with which he texts all day, and whenever it rings, he answers right away. My theory is that he has some super-secret informant nobody's supposed to know about.)

Tom watched her as she straightened out the various shirts, leaned against the table with flags. “See anything you like?”

She tensed. He could see how her shoulders straightened. “Rainbow slogan shirts are not really my style.”

“I’m more of a dress shirt man myself, too.” He admitted, “But we all make sacrifices for the parade.” He moved past her, picked up a rainbow shirt, held it to his chest. “Might as well go all-out tacky.”

She huffed, “For all-out tacky, wear a ballgown. The more fabric, the more _extra_ , I’ve heard.”

“Or… _less_.” He lowered the shirt with a smirk. “Less is extra.”

“Don’t-” She cringed at the idea. “As your bodyguard, please don’t.” She glared, “I have to _watch_ you.”

“I could give you something to watch.” He laughed at the face she made. “So you really don’t want to talk about the _elephant_?”

“The elephant is an ivory piano by now.” She looked up at him, eyes serious. “There’s not much to talk about, is there? I know who you are, you know who I am. I’m gonna make sure no one harms you or your family, but I’m _not_ wearing a rainbow shirt.”

He studied her for a moment. “You’d look good in pink.”

“Stop _fishing_.” She stepped back and looked at her work. “You’re as bad as _that_ one.” She gestured to the door.

“Yet you resist us both.” His smirk rubbed her the wrong way, “What about purple? Or blue and yellow?”

“What’s the flag for _I don’t give a fuck_?” Her hand was flexing involuntarily, and she grabbed the edge of the table behind her. “Could you… grab me a drink?”

“More _whiskey_?” He seemed to know when to back down, at least. “You know, you could’ve just told me you weren’t drinking. I’d’ve gotten you Coke.”

“Don’t do drugs, either.” She allowed him a smile, let herself relax. “But thanks.”

He poured her a glass. “You know I’m going to circle back to the shirts, right? Eventually.”

“Eventually is good.” She leaned against the table. “Now, tell me about your family.”

He dug through his pocket with one hand, pulling out his wallet as he placed the glass at his side. (Yes, he’s one of _those_ parents.)

“This is Vanessa, my daughter.” He showed her a picture, the same little girl Fox had shown her. “I’m mostly a stay-at-home dad, but since she’s in school, I’ve been picking up projects.”

“What school does she go to?” She slipped into detective mode, pulled out her booklet. “Any trouble there?”

He shrugged, “The mothers all think it’s _delightfully exotic_ that I’m not British. I never had any trouble from them.”

“I’ll bet, you charmer.” She studied him. He reached down, grabbed the glass and pressed it into her hand.

“Drink.”

She frowned, “Have you-”

“Shay.” Fox closed the door behind him softly. “We have something.”

He seemed off, somehow, subdued. There was a worry in his eyes neither of them had seen in a long time.

“What is it?” Beside her, Tom straightened, mirroring his pose.

“Carlyle just called.” As he talked, his face turned grim. “He got sent photos.”

5

It’s an odd thing, seeing Carlyle distressed. His whole purpose in this weird pseudo-family system is to be a stable, calm factor. He weathers the storms Shay chases his way, ready with tea and nutrition for when the wind has stopped trying to smash the windows. He provided a counterweight, a listening ear, sanity. Watching him off-kilter is like watching cracks appear in the house itself. And usually, there’s nothing I can do about it.

This was one of the first times I saw him like that, maybe even _the_ first time. It was very disconcerting.

Normally, wherever he is, there is sound around him. He whistles while he putters in the kitchen, shouts over the screaming of the kettle, paces with shoes creaky from wear. When Shay has one of her silent episodes, he’ll talk, and talk and talk, chatter on like a parakeet with a mirror until she responds. When everyone is buried deep within research and paperwork, he’ll turn on his audio system and fill the entire house with soft jazz. When Shay is stuck on the couch, he’ll fill the house with the smell of fresh bread and warm biscuits, sing until the sunshine returns to her eyes. When Peter comes in, soaked or cold or sad, he’ll dig out old movies and talk over them until we all feel better.

It’s not an image I’ll ever lose. He was standing over his desk, still like a statue, staring down at the picture. He looked ashen, grey, older than I’ve ever seen him, and he was completely silent.

Completely, utterly silent.

I watched with growing dread as he stood unmoving, and I startled as he moved. His hands tapped out something on his phone, quick and precise and without his eyes moving from the image before him, before he dialled a call.

“ _Fox._ ”

“You with Shay?” There seemed to be something stuck in his throat.

There was a minute pause on the other side. “ _What’s wrong?_ ”

“Someone sent pictures from last night.”

“ _Shi-_ ” I could hear Fox take a calming breath over the line. “ _Don’t touch anything_. _We’ll be- I’m taking her home. Hang in there._ ”

The line died, and he stood for a moment.

“Tea!” he decided, voice louder than expected. “They’ll need tea if they get here. Come on, it’s about time for lunch, too.”

(It’s a great thing he’s a good cook, and it’s fortunate for us that he likes to keep busy in the kitchen, but with the stresses Shay puts him through, he’s going to give me a pot belly one day.)

When Shay came in, it was like a breath of fresh air. She strolled in, all straight angles and focussed energy, and her confidence filled the room, seemed to drop my heart rate with the calm she exuded. Fox followed her on her heels, a man I assumed was Tom right behind them. He was as she described him: the kind of still-handsome that spoke volumes about the amount of care he took with his appearance.

Fox strode to the desk, but Shay made a beeline to the kitchen. I could hear their voices, muffled through the closed door, but it doesn’t take much guesswork to know what they were talking about. (“Are you all right?” - “Are _you_?”) It didn’t take long before they came out, both carrying trays of food.

“The emperor has declared _lunch_.” She stated. She glanced at Fox. “You secure the pictures?”

He held up an evidence bag. “You look good in them.”

“Later.” She led the way to the dining room. “No work at the table.” She gestured for me to join them, and I fell in line. “But Tom, you should really tell the guys about Vanessa.”

Fox groaned.

Watching Shay hatch schemes is _something else_. As much as I like to say I’m involved in what she does, I’m very rarely there when she comes up with her plans.

(That might also have something to do with the amount of _winging it_ she seems to do.)

This, though, this was full-on scheming and it was very interesting, to say the least.

Over lunch, the conversation naturally shifted back to the photos, no matter how much she tried to slow it down. Eventually, she allowed it, passing them around and telling us not to get relish on them.

They were quite nice; the photographer had been lurking at a good spot. There were hardly any other people in the shot, nothing blocking the way, and among others, there was a shot where he’d lifted her above his head. He smiled brightly. The look on her face can only be described as ecstatic.

There was also the one of their dip, their faces less than an inch apart.

Carlyle had gone silent again.

“What do we do?” Tom was turning one of the pictures in his hands. “Your cover is blown.”

“Not necessarily.” She took the last bit of her sandwich. “Describe the picture to me.”

He frowned. “D’you want to see it?”

There was a brief pause. I exchanged a knowing glance with Fox.

She tilted her head, just slightly. “Did I ask you to hand it over?”

It was fascinating, watching her bring him off-kilter with just a few words.

“Describe it to me.” Her fingers played with the rim of her glass, her eyes inquisitive, face warm, everything to show him she had no ill intent.

“It’s us.” He looked down at the picture, “Dancing. Not much to it.” 

“What else?”

He shrugged.

She sighed. “Fox?”

“There _is_ nothing else.” He picked the photo from Tom’s hands, glanced at it. Put it face-down. “That’s the point. He was in front.”

“And you?” Her voice was soft as she turned to Carlyle. He was staring down at a photo, _that_ photo. “Tell me what you see?”

He stayed silent.

She reached over, grabbed his hand, unfurled his fingers. Entwined them with her own. “Please.”

I could feel Tom’s stare, it must’ve been burning into her skull.

Carlyle took a breath. “You’re about to kiss.”

“But we weren’t.” It seemed an assurance. “So?”

“It was staged.” He realised, shoulders relaxing. “Framed to look like that.”

“And why would anyone do that?”

Fox groaned. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Wish I was.” A smirk was growing around her lips, though, slow and devious. “But we use it to our advantage.”

“You have a plan.” I had the feeling the entire conversation was passing me by, but I didn’t mind. Much.

“Don’t I always?” She let go of the hand, collected the photos and stacked them in the middle of the table. “These are meant for blackmail, probably. So we _give_ him something to photograph.” She turned to Tom, “How fast can you set up an event for people to pick up their shirts? Somewhere… public, perhaps, but with a controlled guest list?”

Realisation dawned on Tom’s face. “Oh, that’s good. You’re good.”

“She’s the _fucking_ best.” All right, so Carlyle wasn’t _completely_ back to normal, yet.

She glanced at him before continuing. “Aiden will need a complete list of everyone you’re expecting, and access to a security camera. Or we need space to set one up.”

Fox whistled, “Going all out.”

“Fucker knows my address.” Her eyes landed on the envelope the pictures had come in. “Which makes it _extremely_ personal. This is war, and I plan on making it a short one.”

There was something in her eyes, something scary and dark, and we all saw it. Tom, though, dared to comment.

“You’re _scary_.” He decided, “You’re like a god of War. Like Mars.”

“Or Ares.” I was desperate to prove I had a brain, too.

Fox hummed, “She’s more of an _Athena_ , I think.”

(It took me some time and a Google to realise how right he was.)

6

Tom needed some time to set up and unfortunately for Shay, he insisted she help her, which gave him more time to grill her. It seemed he was set on wheedling _something_ out of her.

Luckily for me, her note keeping is meticulous even in situations like these.

It started when Tom poked her in the side as she was folding the flags. “I sense you’re not completely comfortable with everything here.”

She huffed as she dropped another flag on the stack. “What tipped you off?”

He chuckled, “Might’ve been the angry folding. Might’ve been Sam told me.” He slung his arm around her shoulders. “Want to vent about it to a practical stranger?”

She shrugged, “Sam told _me_ you have a hard time letting things go.”

“He _does_ know people.” He grabbed another flag, started folding with her. “Come on, talk. Is it the bar?”

She sighed. “It’s not the bar.” She considered it, “Not _just_ the bar. It’s also...” She made a face. “It’s hard to put into words without sounding like an ass, but this… _thing_ rubs against everything I believe in.”

His face turned expressionless. “That’s homophobic.”

“And not what I _meant._ ” She _thumped_ her fist on one of the piles. “This is difficult enough in my own _head_ , let alone trying to articulate it.”

“Try again, then.” He watched her through his lashes as he worked. “Take your time.”

She did. It took longer than she’d like.

“There’s a saying where I’m from.” she started, carefully not meeting his eyes. “Don’t stick your head above to corn field or risk having it cut off.” She flattened the flag in her hands. “I stick out enough without trying.”

“This whole thing isn’t about trying. It’s about-”

“I know. It’s… celebrating, right? Sam tried explaining it to me, once. Still.” She grabbed a new one. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for being who you are and accepting yourself but-”

“You just don’t want us to celebrate it.” He was getting angry, she could tell.

“You’re free to do what you want.” She shrugged, “Just don’t expect me to join in.”

He studied her. “This is not about you disagreeing with this, is it?”

“No.” she straightened out another pile. “This is about Sam disagreeing with me when I told him this whole thing isn’t for me.”

“... And then convincing me I need to talk to you.” He hummed. “We’ve been played.”

“Shamelessly.” She nodded. “Want to get angry at him? Or want to keep picking apart my motivations?”

He didn’t even think about it. “So you’re not a fan of flashy things?”

“Not just that.” She grabbed the last of the flags. “It’s also... this is a lot. I mean, _a lot_.” She gestured around them. “How do you- Without…”

He chuckled. “Yes.”

“It’s just…” She groaned, “The whole _adaptation means survival_ thing, you know? My whole life I’ve adapted to my surroundings, I’ve blended in as much as I could, and-”

“Yeah, you really give off that vibe, with your detective work and your mansion and your servant.” He smiled at her frown. “I’ve seen your file, I know what you’re getting at.”

She glared at him. “-And now people look up to me. Trust me. Expect me to have answers. What if I’m… wrong? Or what if I… _change_?”

He narrowed his eyes, stepped back a bit. “Explain.”

“What if-” She took a moment to collect herself, met his eyes as she did, “This is hard for me, you know?”

(It’s hard, reading this. I want to get up, go find her, wherever she is, and tell her not to worry, tell her that whatever happens, there are always people like Carlyle and Peter and Fox and me and _so many others_ , that will be there, whatever. I want to shake her and yell at her and tell her _we don’t care_. But a lot of time has passed since she first met Tom, and I think she knows, now, at least more than she did back then. She’s willing to accept it more, now, I think. Still. Next time I see her, I will try to give her a hug.)

He crossed his hands, glanced at his watch. “We still have time.”

She sighed. “I’m not getting out of this, am I?” She rubbed her eyes. “I never- My brother always tells me I’ll find someone, one day, talks about marriage and kids in my future as if they’re a given, but what if… What _if_ , you know?”

“No, I don’t.” He said, drily. “Tell me.”

“Well.” She ran her finger past the assorted flags, not lingering on one in particular. “What if I never do? What if… romance, all that jazz, is not for me? Or what if it is, but I’ll never know, because I don’t know what to look for? Or what if I _think_ it isn’t for me, but then I meet the one, but I don’t notice because I’ve given up?”

He stayed silent.

She went on. “Or what if I neglect to fall in love with someone because somewhere along the way I’ve decided I like blonds, or brunettes, or-”

“Women?” Tom huffed, “You’ve thought a lot about this.”

“I think a lot about everything.” She managed a small smile. “It’s my job.”

“All right, consider this, then.” He leaned against the table behind him. “If you’d had a normal brain, a normal view of all this, would you doubt everything like this?”

“How can I _possibly_ answer that?!” 

“Alright.” He thought for a moment. “Have you ever been in love?”

“I-” Her face fell. “I don’t know. Describe it to me?”

“Have you ever…” His eyes were dancing over the table before her, “... been with someone, and realised you want to spend the rest of your life with them?”

“I think you’re skipping a few steps.” She remarked.

“Have you?”

(I don’t even doubt a little bit who crossed her mind.) “Yes.”

“Ever want to kiss them?” 

She considered it as she folded the last few flags. It took her a long time.

(I wonder if the question ever crosses her mind nowadays. I wonder if she ever gets caught unawares, in a moment of weakness, and she asks herself again. I wonder if the answer ever changed.)

“No.” She decided. “Can’t say I do.” She hesitated. “Is that… weird?”

“Nothing’s weird.” He assured her, “Everything’s weird. Look.” He took the stack from the table, dropped it with the rest of the merch. “What are you afraid of, really? That you’ll hate yourself when you’ve changed? Or that others will think you’re _wrong_? Because I saw that Carlyle fellow, and there ain’t nothing you can do that’ll make him think any less of you.”

She huffed, dry and humourless. “You’ve _barely_ met him.”

“I had to watch him wanting to rip my head off because he was convinced I coerced you into those photos.” He commented, “Whatever you discover yourself to be, however long it takes, it’ll be alright.”

Her eyes drifted to one of the piles. “It doesn’t matter much, now.” She decided, “Right now, I’m a detective. My only worry is smoking out our stalker before something bad happens.”

“Right.” He checked his watch. “We should be getting ready; first people will be coming in soon.”

“We should.”

She didn’t move, though, her eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance.

7

Their last preparations didn’t take too long. Shay wired herself up with a small earpiece and called me in, making sure everything worked properly. I had access to a set of cameras and some facial recognition software, and paired with the list of people it meant I’d be doing most of the work. Still, she would be down there, _antagonising_ , and it didn’t give me a great feeling.

(Having a screen full of CCTV in front of me always makes me feel like I’m looking down on everything, like an eye in the sky or a watch tower. Though sometimes, it feels more like a I’m a little boy, looking down at my backyard from the treehouse my father built me.)

Carlyle had joined me, along with a plate of finger sandwiches. I switched my sound feed to speakers, and we watched.

Slowly, the people poured in. The room was big enough for them to spread out comfortably, and some started browsing the merch right away. Fox walked in sometime later, dressed in a soft jumper and jeans. To my surprise, most people there seemed to know him, greeting him warmly and slapping him on the shoulder.

As it turned out, he has a life outside of his job.

“ _Anything yet_?” The speaker crackled, and she met my eyes briefly through the camera lens.

“Nothing.” I reported back. I glanced at Carlyle before I suggested, “Start flirting?”

We watched as she sauntered over to Tom, slipped his arm over her shoulders. He managed to hide his surprise well, hugging her closer and leaning down to talk to her privately. He chose the wrong ear, and she whispered back too silently to be picked up by the microphone.

“Care to _dance_?” The implications in his tone weren’t lost on her.

She smirked. “Shouldn’t we go _loud_ for this to work?”

“Maybe.” His hand slid down, down to her hip. “But you’ll have to agree this looks intimate.” 

She rolled her eyes, leaned against him more fully. “Show me around, then.”

He guided her past the tables, introducing her to people whenever they ran into someone, even going as far as formally introducing her to Fox. He played his part, pressing her closer and squeezing her side and whispering words in her hair, and in return she rested her head against his chest, looked up at him with her slight smile and a blush rising on her cheeks.

They sold it.

It seemed like Tom had clued some people in on what was going on, because they accepted the way he paraded her around fairly easily. There were a few strange looks, but they seemed to be placated the moment Tom opened his mouth. Our microphone was short-range, and I only picked up the odd word. Shay had insisted on it, something about _privacy_ or some similar nonsense. (It’s my job to watch CCTV and spy on people; privacy is a dead concept.) At the moment, I was busy with other things, but in hindsight, it’s not too hard to figure out what exactly happened.

Tom has taken her around the room, and one of the people who’d taken a liking to her dragged Fox over to introduce them.

“Shay!” She had to turn around in Tom’s arms to face them. “Have you met Sam?”

She looked him up and down, her smirk only visible in her eyes. “I believe we’ve met before, yes.” The kind smile she tried turned into a smirk. “Briefly.”

“Oh, _my_.” Their new friend giggled. “That sounds like a _story_.”

“It is.” She nodded, meeting his eyes. “Quite a night. I remember practically carrying you home. Couldn’t stand on his feet, this one.”

Fox huffed, amused. “ _I_ remember you picking a fight with two blokes and nearly getting downed.”

“ _Nearly_.” She nodded at him. “Good to see you on your feet again.”

He gripped her right hand, shook it firmly. “You, too.”

“So…” Her new friend glanced between them and Tom. “Have you invited her yet?”

“Invited me to what?”

Fox looked insulted, reached past her to slap Tom on the arm. “You didn’t _invite_ her?”

“Invited me to _what_?” She repeated.

Tom shrugged, “I haven’t gotten arou-”

“Tom, _to what_?”

If I could hear the dangerous edge in her voice, the men would surely pick up on it as well.

“A bunch of us get together weekly, have _tea_ and _scones_ and other very British things. You’d hate it.”

“Tom’s a bit of a spearhead.” Fox explained, “It’s where we met.”

“Is it?” She pressed herself closer to Tom. “You didn’t mention.”

“You didn’t ask.” Tom’s hand darted to the dip of her waist. “It’s a great place to meet new people. You’re welcome to tag along, if you’d like.”

She sighed. Her gaze darted between the two, and she groaned at their eager faces. “You’re gonna bully me into going, aren’t you?”

“Probably.” Tom winked at her. “Like I’m about to bully you into one of these shirts.” He pointed at the table, “Made a choice, yet?”

He used their new topic to guide her away, and Fox easily occupied the other person, giving them a brief moment to themselves.

“You okay?”

She took a deep breath. “Don’t keep me out of things.”

“Noted.” He looked around. “It’s quiet, still.”

She hummed, “No one’s been flagged, yet.”

“They’re not here?”

“Or they’re invited.” She worried her lip as she thought. “We might have to be… _more._ ”

“More.” He pondered, his hand sneaking down to play at her hip. “I can do more.”

“Do it, then.” Another deep breath. “Show me more.”

He grabbed her hands and guided her to the windows. “Just in case.” He glanced outside. “Think they’re out there?”

“Highly unlikely.” She let him manipulate her into an intimate embrace. “They’d need to be in here to _do_ anything.”

“They can _do things_ from a distance.” He leaned in, hand moving up to caress her cheek, the soft look on his face not matching his whispered words. “They’ve invented _things_ for that.”

She rolled her eyes. Following his lead, she reached up to twine around his neck. “This isn’t America.” She huffed, “Not everyone owns a gun.”

“Enough people do.” He leaned forward. “You alright?”

“I’m good.”

(As a side note, Carlyle was _not_ )

“Good.” He leaned closer still. His eyes darted to her lips. “Wouldn’t want to make you… _uncomfortable_.”

She swallowed. “When this is over, we’re never doing this again.”

“Agreed.” His breath was warming her cheek. “So, Doctor Shanaeya Klinger-Goldfield-Renard…”

She cringed at the full name but managed to contain it. “Yes, Mr Thomas Edward Donnelly?”

He smirked, meeting her eyes. “Can I kiss you?”

8

“I-”

Her body responded on instinct. Before she registered what was happening, she fell to her knees, pulling Tom down with her. The glass shattered beside them, the _bang_ of the shot reaching them almost at the same time. Someone screamed, almost everyone covered their heads.

“ _Down_!” She roared, eyes sweeping the room. To her relief, everyone fell to their knees. “Everyone okay?” She looked at Tom. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” He tried to sit up, but she held him down. “I’m good.”

“You jinxed it.” She managed a smirk as she let him go, surveyed the room more fully. “Anyone hurt?”

There was a dissenting murmur. She breathed a sigh of relief.

“Sam?”

“Here.” It came from somewhere near the door.

Slowly, she stood. “Stay down and stay away from the window.” She ordered, voice steel hard. People listened to that voice, always. “Tom, find out where that bullet went.”

She marched outside, Fox on her heels. As soon as he could, he started running.

She was right behind, fumbling with her earpiece. “Aid, get the cops here, _fast._ ”

I hesitated for a moment, unsure, but Carlyle already had his phone out. “Aye.”

They turned a corner and I lost sight of them. Fox sprinted towards a nearby set of bushes, looking over his shoulders to get a view of the windows and almost running into a tree because of it.

“Here.” He said, ducking a branch. “He was here, for sure.”

“Secure it.” She jogged to the window, peered through it, surveyed the jagged edges of the glass. “Don’t contaminate it.”

“I’m not an idiot.” He took a step back, though, and studied the scene from a distance. “Someone’s been laying here for some time.” He looked back at her, “Sniper?”

“Doubt it.” She crouched down to survey the impact. “They missed.”

He looked her way. “Careful with the glass.”

She smirked, “I’m not an idiot.” and stuck her hand through the hole.

Carefully, of course. Shay always does everything carefully. That’s why we have an entire _room_ dedicated to first aid.

She pointed her finger in the direction of the supposed trajectory. “Tom, you read me?”

“Loud and clear.” His head popped up on the far end of the room, his smile relieved. “You want impact?”

“Show me.” She nodded. She strained her finger as he moved, tracking him. As he pointed it out, she closed an eye and aimed. “Am I off?”

“A little.” Someone kneeling beneath the window adjusted her. She stilled. Slowly, carefully, she raised her other hand and followed the line, pointing down at where the bullet had come from.

“Sam, extrapolate.”

He fell to his knees, raising his hands as if shooting a rifle. “Forty feet.” He lowered his hands. “Roughly.”

“Roughly will have to do.” She retracted her hand, walked back to him. “For now.” She looked at him, at the window. “I could take that shot with my eyes closed.”

“Wouldn’t need a rifle, either.” he looked down at his knees. “Should be a shell, here.”

“Keep looking.” She wrestled through the bushes, looking at the spot where their assailant had lain. “What kind of bushes do you think these are?”

“Not a gardener.” He ran his hands through the grass, looked up as he noticed her taking something from her pocket. “You _always_ carry those?”

She snapped on the gloves. “Most of the time.” Carefully, she grabbed a twig, fiddled with it as she studied it. “Thorns.” She fell to her haunches.

“Promising.” He looked over her shoulder. “You have a bag?”

She produced one, and he turned it inside out to pick something off the ground.

“Twig.” He said, disappointed.

“Keep looking.” She pressed herself to the ground to look at the bottom of the bushes. “Flashlight?”

“Torch.” He had one, and he tossed it to her carelessly.

“ _Watch out!_ ” She grabbed it from mid-air. “Idiot.”

He rolled his eyes.

It took Fox another moment or two, but eventually he found something that wasn’t a twig. He held it up to the light, rolling it between his fingers as it gleamed.

“Nine millimetres.” He pulled a face. “About as generic as it could be.”

She hummed, “Forensics will turn up something.” Her head shot up as sirens came closer. “Ten bucks it’s Davies.”

“Fifteen she’ll yell at you within ten minutes.”

“ _Hey_!” She ducked her head back down under the bush. “I’m perfectly lovely.”

He scoffed. “Davies doesn’t agree.”

“How’d you know, anyway?” She swept the bottom of the bush one last time. “You’re not _on_ the force.” She froze as the light caught something. “You have a knife?”

“People talk.” He handed her his Swiss knife. “ _Especially_ Peter.”

“You tell me.” She sawed for a bit, wriggled the supple branch until it gave. “Why do you think I don’t tell him anything?”

“Your past is shrouded in secrets and you’d rather be mysterious than understood?” He watched her as she worked. “Is that a twig?”

“A _bloody_ twig.” She dropped it into a bag. “Trumps your shell, no?”

He shrugged, looked at the road as the sirens were drawing close. “If we run now…”

A patrol car came around the corner, braked as the driver spotted them. She sighed, hauling herself to her feet. “Too late.”

Fox pulled her towards the pavement, grabbed the bag from her hands. “You can still run.”

“Might be a bit suspicious.” She smiled at the officer that exited the car and jogged around it, opening the door for whomever was driving. He didn’t pay her much mind, glancing between them and the broken window before he focussed on his commanding officer.

Fox winched. “Ten quid.” He craned his neck. “And it’s a bad day.”

“We all do, sometimes.” She poked him. “Easy money for you, though.”

DS Davies’ face popped up above the car, surveyed the situation, darkened as she spotted the two on the sidewalk.

(I have met DS Davies. She’s one of those people that walks as if she has an iron rod along her spine, exudes belligerent confidence with every word she speaks. She has the air of someone who’s had to fight to get where she is in life, and she instantly resents anyone who’s had it easier in life.)

(I’m not sure what she has against Shay.)

“There was a report of shots fired.” She drawled, eyes raking over Sam’s form. “You idiots doing target practice?”

“Sam’s not an idiot.” She held out the bags. “We were just securing the scene.”

Davies eyed the bags. “Are you hijacking this _already_?” She leaned to the side to peer around Sam. “Bold. And without your pet, too.”

Shay took a step forward, waved the bags in her face. “I’m on a private case, actually.” She looked at the window, spotted some people getting helped up by officers. “A vindictive stalker that’s just escalated.” Tom’d moved to the window, was talking to the officer through it when he caught her eye. He glanced at Davies, pulled a face that seemed to mean _Need saving?_

She rolled her eyes at him. She _had_ this.

“You’ll need to talk to Thomas Donnelly.” She thrusted the bags forward again. “My client. He was standing at the window when the shot was fired, so he’s the most likely target.”

“Not to mention whatever he hired _you_ for.” Begrudgingly, she took the evidence bags.

“ _Stalking_.” She reminded her. “My guess is some self-righteous bigot. Tom was being threatened for an event he’s setting up.”

“Someone without firearms experience, probably.” Fox chipped in, positioning himself at her shoulder. “But with a history of violence, plausibly assault charges.”

“You have his DNA.” Shay gestured at the bags. “It’s from a branch, down here. If he has been charged before, it shouldn’t be too hard to find him.”

“Even for me, you mean?” Davies seemed intent on a fight.

Shay suppressed a groan. It seemed Fox would get his money. “If I’d meant even for you, I’d’ve said _even for you_.” She glared defiantly. “I’d’ve said that handing an obvious piece of DNA evidence over to a lab assistant and waiting for them to run it through the system is something _even you_ can manage, and I’d’ve added that while you’re sitting twiddling your thumbs letting the smart people think for you, you might as well run that shell casing for markings and fingerprints, _just to keep yourself busy_.” She shrugged. “But, you know, I didn’t.”

Davies’ glare turned _murderous_. Shay knew that right behind her, Fox’s face had gone carefully blank.

“Get out.”

Shay smirked. “But you see, my _pet’_ s been raising me to be polite, so I didn’t.”

“ _Out!_ ” Davies seemed two seconds away from punching her, or arresting her, or maybe, if she pushed a few more buttons, throttling her. Fox didn’t take any chances, though, and pulled her to his car.

He eyed her as they got into the car. “That was on purpose.”

“Only slightly.” She pulled fifteen pounds from her pocket and dropped it into the glovebox. “I’m not having the best day. I just got shot at.”

“They missed.” His eyes flicked over her, searching, the minute frown between his brows in contrast with his light tone. “You’ve had worse.”

“And Tom?” She leaned forward to look at the rear-view mirror. “Think he’ll survive Davies?” 

He chuckled as he shifted into gear. “I’m more worried if she’ll survive _him_.”

Shay huffed, smiling. “She’s had worse.”

When they got home, Peter was waiting for them, unimpressed, phone in hand. I was just on my way out as they came in, but something in the air told me to stay.

“You do realise attempted murder is _definitely_ something they’d call a DI in on?” He tapped the phone against his arm. “Especially when key witnesses just leave.”

“She _did_ tell us to get out.” She eyed the phone. “Everyone else good?”

“Your friend Tom got an earful.” He relaxed, slightly. “Apparently he’s an insufferable parody of man intent on ruining the investigation, her day and possibly her life, in that order.” He softened. “Are you okay?”

“Fine.” She grabbed the small stack of mail Carlyle always collects for her, offering Fox a small smile as he made himself scarce. “You taking the case?”

“I got nothing on.” He shrugged. “Davies says she has it in the bag, though.”

“Let her take credit.” She put one letter aside. From my spot, I could just about see the international postage. “There was blood at the scene, so it shouldn't take too much work.” 

“Do you know who it is?”

She put the stack down again. “No idea.” a slow, knowing smile spread as she thought. “You should go interview Tom.” She suggested, “Maybe take Aiden, just in case.”

(We did go visit the man, the next day. We met at his house, and Tom managed to break down Peter’s professional facade with about three words, and my I-never-visit-clients nerves with seven. _Hi, I’m Tom, and this is Emma_.)

(Though Shay would argue it was four.)

Peter made a prediction as we left Tom’s house, staring dramatically to the horizon as he did. “Seven days.” He mumbled ominously, but then turned to me and smirked. “Though probably five, with how fast the labs work when Shay’s involved.” He started the car. “We’ll have this case solved in less than a week.”

“That’s… good.” I nodded. I was still a bit overwhelmed with the amount of energy Tom seemed to exude. “Right?”

“It means Tom can go ahead with his float.” He quirked a brow. “Another party saved by the great Shay Klinger.”

“It was a team effort.” I decided, thinking back to the afternoon I’d spent staring at camera footage. I remember thinking, at the time, that it was probably the worst and most boring part of my job.

(How wrong I was.)

Peter chuckled, “You don’t have to tell me. Who do you think did your job before you come in?”

(It was almost a throwaway question, rhetorical, but somehow, it did stick. Shay had deliberately chosen me, I realised, months later when the sentence was played back by my mind.)

9

Peter turned out to be almost spot on. Six days later, Tom appeared at the doorstep to drag Shay out to a celebratory drink. Shay rolled her eyes at him but put down what she was working on and grabbed a jacket, willingly let herself be dragged out the door. Before he was out, though, he turned to me.

“What are you waiting for?” If he could without letting go of Shay, I’m sure he would’ve come back in to hound me out of my chair, too. As it was, he just looked at me expectantly.

Unsure, I looked between my work and my boss. I wasn’t on the clock _per se_ , Shay had made it perfectly clear that my salary was not based on any hourly fees, but I _did_ need to finish implementing some spreadsheets. Walking away at that point would make it difficult to find my line of reasoning later on.

“Finish what you need.” She suggested, trying to pull herself free from his grasp. “I’ll text an address so you can meet us there.”

Which was as much permission to take the afternoon off as I was going to get.

When I came to the pub, I discovered it was much more of a celebration than I’d expected. The bar was closed, but about a dozen people were spread out over the tables, chatting and laughing. There was an atmosphere of elation, relief, victory almost, and it was weird to enter into that bubble.

Tom spotted me almost directly, and pressed a pint into my hands.

“ _This_ is a drink?” I looked around the room, vaguely recognised some faces from the merch handout.

Tom shrugged. “It turned into a bit of a get-together.” He nodded at where Shay was sat at a table. “I guess they were more terrified than they let on. Your boss gave them room to breathe again.”

She really had. At that moment, she was being talked to by two women, both of them seemingly trying to convince her to let them buy her a drink.

“I might have to go save her.”

“Do that.” Tom smirked. “I’ll go grab her a coke and join you.”

And with that, he left me to save her.

She lit up slightly as she spotted me. “You made it!” She scooted her chair over so there was a free space. “I was almost worried Tom was going to chew me out for giving you too much work.” She gestured to the free chair. “This is Clara, and Evie. They’re dead set on buying alcohol, so enjoy it.”

“I’m good.” I raised my glass at them as I sat down. “Nice to meet you, though.”

“Nice to meet _you_!” One woman - Evie - greeted. “At least _you’re_ not boring.”

“It’s three in the afternoon.” She shrugged; her smile slightly forced. “I don’t drink before five.”

“We’ll just have to keep you here long enough, then.” She sounded triumphant.

Somehow, I didn’t think that would work.

Tom re-joined us, and I felt glad. I don’t think I could’ve handled the conversation on my own, as it seemed Shay had checked out from the conversation, not really willing to give any in-depth answers anymore. I didn’t really blame her.

I was halfway through my second pint, kindly provided by Clara, when Tom’s phone pinged. He checked it, eyebrows raising at the message.

Shay perked up. “All right?”

“Yeah.” He pocketed it. “Remember how you insisted you didn’t want to get paid?”

“It rings a bell.” She nodded, “Considering I said it about half an hour ago.”

“Well.” He pulled a face, almost looking apologetic. “I’d already ordered a few things as a little thank you.”

Something clicked with Shay, and she narrowed her eyes, gripping her glass. “What things?”

“Just… things.” He shrugged. “A mug, some shirts… a flag.”

“A-” She caught herself from raising her voice. ” _Please_ tell me you mean a national flag.”

Now, he _did_ look apologetic. “No.”

“ _No?!_ ” She took a calming breath. “Tom, I-” Another sigh, hopeless now. “My sixty-year-old groundskeeper slash secretary opens my mail, how am I-” She fell silent, frowning for a moment. The background hubbub was suddenly very loud.

“I need to-” Her eyes flicked to my beer, to the cocktail Tom was sipping. “I’ll need a cab.” She was already getting up, digging out her phone, almost in a panic.

Tom pulled her back down. “ _Calm_.” He pushed her drink into her hands. “If he’s opened the package, it’s already too late.” He nigh-on guided her hand up, getting her to calm her breathing to take a sip.

She did. “I am going to _kill_ you.”

“You worry too much.” He assured her. I really didn’t know how he could stay that calm. I was fairly certain she _would_ kill him. Though she would probably wait until after the float. No reason to waste her hard work.

“I _am_ going to kill you.” She looked up at him, “After I die of embarrassment because Carlyle has had to make sense of merch _you’ve_ decided fits me and this _ridiculous_ notion of labelling you have.”

Evie seemed to want to bud in, looking almost offended, but Tom rescued her before she could step her foot in it.

“It’s not ridiculous, and you _know_ it.” He almost sounded stern. I figured this was something they’d discussed before.

(Of course, now I know that they _had,_ thanks to her notetaking, but at the time, I was just confused.)

“It’ll be alright.” He continued, softer. “Whatever happens, it’ll be alright.”

“And if it isn’t, I have a spare room.” I’m still not sure what spurred me to say it, but the smile that grew on her face made it worth it.

Eventually, after she finished her drink, Tom did call her a cab, assuring me that it was fine if I stayed a little longer. Still, it didn’t feel right leaving her, as nervous as she was. I told him I still had some work to finish, but it was clear he didn’t believe me. I didn’t really care.

She was silent on our way back, and I took the time to sober up as much as was needed. Two pints don’t make me drunk, but with her reaction to the news, I had a feeling I needed to be completely sober, just in case.

Just before we turned into her street, I remembered to text my wife to let her know we might get an overnight guest.

Carlyle was casually sifting through the mail as we came in. He looked up, smiled as he spotted me. “Welcome back.” He put a letter in a separate pile. “forgot something, Aiden?”

I narrowed my eyes. “Not sure.”

“Has there been a package for me?” Shay was carefully trying to hide her panic, but if I could see it, it must’ve been obvious for Carlyle.

He nodded. “Big one. There was a card with it from Tom.”

She hesitated, just a moment. “What did you do with it?”

“It was _mail_.” He quirked his brow. “I opened it. Brought it up to your room, took the mug to the kitchen.”

She shot up the stairs.

We stood, waiting, for a few tense moments. Carlyle smiled at me, a knowing glint in his eyes.

It took a moment, but she came barrelling down again, skipping the last few steps and almost throwing herself into his arms.

He smiled at the top of her head.

Everything seemed to be fine.

I made myself scarce.

(Only recently, I got a glimpse into her room. The black and purple flag hangs pride-of-place above her bed, and it looks like it’s been there for a long time.)


	4. The Case That Wasn't

Sometimes, the boring cases are the most fun. To me, at least.

Shay prides herself on only working cases she deems important, or _fun_ (whatever her definition of _that_ is), or in some other mysterious way _worth it_. Sadly, for her, it doesn’t always work out that way.

Sometimes, a mysterious contact will call her on a quiet day, and she’ll groan and come to their aid. Those days remind me of when I met Tristan for the first time, a friend helping someone out even though they don’t want to.

Some days, Peter will storm in and announce we have a case. Those days remind me of when I used to bully my sister into doing my yard work.

This was one of the latter cases. Peter came into my office, where Shay had been building a tea-making station and _bonked_ his head against the wall next to my computer.

“We’re going to Knightsbridge.” He announced, groaning. “Locked room robbery.”

“Sounds like a Met problem.” She didn’t look up from where she was carefully taping wires to the table.

“I’m not going out there alone.” In my peripheral, I could see him turn his head to glare at her, but I didn’t dare look. I wouldn’t be able to hold it together if I did.

“Take Davies.” She did look up, now. “She is your subordinate, _no_?”

“It’s _Knightsbridge_.” He turned, slumped fully against the wall, looking at her. “Davies would rip ‘em apart. Or storm off. Or- I need emotional support, not _Davies_.”

“Ask your dad.” She knelt to connect the wires to the wall. “He doesn’t seem to be doing much.”

“He’s not a certified consultant.” He pulled a face. “I can’t take him.”

I saved my progress. I knew how this would end. It always ends the same.

“Well, I’m busy.” She twisted something, flipped a switch, and the light of the kettle turned on.

“You’re almost done.” I know he was using that pleading look, even when I didn’t see it. “You have nothing else on.”

“I have _plenty_.” I could hear her roll her eyes. “I need to restring your dad’s piano, and there’s a pile of stained wood with my name on it, not to mention my-”

“Please? I need you.”

There it was. I shut down my computer and grabbed my bag. She was about to give in to him, and I had no doubt she’d drag me down with her.

There was a groan, a sigh. An angry _click_ as she flicked the main switch.  
“Aiden is coming with me.” She bargained, “I’m _not_ I’m not making a single note for those Knightsbridge snobs.”

“Taking.” Smirking broadly, he tossed me my jacket. “Come on, then, let’s get this over with.”

Watching Shay work is something I’ll never get used to. There is a meticulous method, an underlying set of steps to the way she dances around a room. It took me a while to figure them out, but once you see the patterns, they’re hard to ignore.

First, after making her way to wherever she was needed and dealing with the social aspect of her job, she stands. She stands in the doorway, or just inside the police tape, or at the entrance of the alleyway, or wherever she can survey the space. She stands, watching, unmoving, long enough for people to think that her mind has gone elsewhere. Then, like a wind-up toy, she springs into action, circling the crime scene, twirling on her feet, hands gliding through the air almost-touching the world around her. It reminds me of a dancer, almost, with her focus and perfectly precise poise, except that tumbling through spaces and sniffing walls should never be called graceful, in whatever context. After, she will take off in a flurry of half explanations and rushed orders, and most of us will watch hopelessly as Peter tries to keep up with her.

Knightsbridge was no different.

I remember the client (We’ll call her Mrs. Richards, for privacy’s sake, because if someone would sue us, it’d be her) opening the door, smiling at Peter’s carefully put-together persona of charming, calming DI. I could tell she seemed less happy with me; my _slightly_ ragged appearance not entirely suited to the neighbourhood. (In my defence, I’d been late that morning, and I wasn’t expecting a case. Since then, I’ve taken to keeping a suit and a razor at the office.)

When Mrs. Richards saw Shay, though, her face didn’t just fall, it plummeted.

It might’ve had something to do with Shay’s refusal to change out of her home improvement kit.

Shay stepped forward, smiling brightly, seemingly unaware that her rags were an affront and an insult and all that, and for the first time that day, I wished I’d brought popcorn. Everything in her attitude screamed she was there to have some fun with the clients.

(The first time I noticed that demeanour in her was ten minutes before getting barred from an upscale china shop. Witnessing the complete chaos she could wreak was worth the lifetime ban.)

Peter introduced her as Shay Klinger, police consultant, without offering much more than that, and Mrs. Richards pulled a face as she shook her hand.

“This way.” Her accent was as posh as her house. She guided us down a hall, up a marble-clad set of stairs, and to a closed door.

Peter stopped her before she opened it. “Could you just reiterate what happened?” He asked, positioning himself between her and the door, “For my colleagues.”

The word _colleague_ seemed to spark something in Shay, and she perked up from where she’d been studying an abstract painting.

Mrs. Richards sighed, as if the whole ordeal was far too much trouble, but explained anyway. “This is my husband’s study.” She started, “He’s an investor, he keeps a lot of important papers in here. _Confidential,_ you see _.”_ Her gaze landed on Shay, her message clear. “He keeps the door closed, for… _safety_ reasons.”

“He’s paranoid.” Shay surmised, “Didn’t want anyone seeing his plans.”

“Merely _careful_.” She bristled, “My husband moves around a lot of money. _Enfin_ , I also keep some _valuables_ in there, some necklaces, my pearls, you can probably imagine the sort.”

“I might be able to, yes.” She didn’t quite roll her eyes, but it was a close thing.

“Well, I was preparing for my husband’s return -I’d booked dinner to an Italian place he loves at the Strand, a nightmare to get a table, but if you have the right connections-”

“Where is he now?” She interrupted.

The woman seemed nonplussed, wrongfooted at the interruption. People probably let her ramble on indefinitely.

“In an aeroplane, presumably.” She frowned at her. “On his way back from Dubai. He called me, this morning. before he boarded. He should arrive here this evening. I wanted to surprise him.”

“Probably not like _this_.” She looked around. “What exactly is missing? When did you find out?”

“A pearl necklace.” She touched her collarbone, almost in memory. “He gave it to me at our engagement party. It’s a unique piece.”

She hummed, “Unique means expensive.” She nodded, “Anything else?”

The woman shook her head. “I have a diamond pendant in there, but the thieves left it.”

“ _Thieves_.” She hummed, “When did you last see it?”

“Oh, it must’ve been three days ago, maybe four.” She seemed to relax a little. “My husband had sent it to a jeweller’s to be cleaned, and it came back just this week. You see, pearls need to be-”

“This was after your husband left for Dubai?” Shay interrupted, “You put it back in the safe?”

“Put it back in and locked the door behind me.” She procured a key from somewhere. “Only my husband and I enter the room, even the cleaner stays out.”

“And when you came back to your locked room, and your locked safe, the necklace was gone.” Shay surmised. “Was it insured?”

Mrs. Richards nodded, “We keep the papers downstairs.”

“Peter?”

“It would be a great help if you can find them for us.” Peter offered, smiling disarmingly at the woman. “In the meantime, we’d like to take a look around the study.”

The woman handed him the key. “I’d rather you didn’t-”

“We won’t disturb anything.” He promised. “And I can assure you we’re not interested in your husband’s trading secrets.”

It seemed to be enough to assure her, because soon, she was on her way down.

2

Even when she is convinced her presence is completely superfluous, she jumps into her routine with dedicated precision. (I asked her about it, after, why she would dedicate that much energy to a _necklace_. Her answer was simple: You never know.)

She spent her time studying the edges of the safe, running her fingers along its door and staring at its lock as if she could open it with sheer will.

Peter sighed, “Verbalise, Shay.”

“The safe wasn’t forced open.” She didn’t look up. “Almost impossible, with these things, not without leaving a trail. Aiden-” She jumped up, hopped towards the window. “-check flight records, see if you can find what exactly Mr Richards has been up to.”

“You think he’s hiding things?” I was already Googling the man.

“He’s a stockbroker.” She gestured behind her, at the desk. “Of course, he’s hiding things. Get me his travel history.” She frowned as she turned around. “No sign of a break-in here, either.”

Peter frowned, “You think it was a maid?”

“No maid comes in here.” She eyed the mess on the desk. “I believe Richards on that. Maybe someone copied the key?”

“She keeps it on her at all times.” Peter shook his head. “I doubt anyone had the opportunity to.”

“Someone did.” Her gaze shifted to the walls, impeccably papered with a soft yellow pattern. “That, or I’m missing something.”

“You have a theory.” Peter pulled out his notebook, ready to take orders. “Go on, then.”

“Two, actually. I’ll need building plans of this place, original uses of rooms and build years, that sort of stuff.” She looked around the room again, “This neighbourhood, there might just be something designed to be missed.”

“Blueprints, original purposes, look for secret entryways.” He surmised, jotting it down. “Noted. And the other theory?”

“There should be a certification somewhere, with a decent description of the necklace. I want it.”

Peter snapped his booklet shut. “You’re not going to tell me what it is, are you?”

She smirked as she pulled out her phone. “Do I ever?”

I went back to the mansion as soon as I could, leaving the two to bicker amongst themselves. It didn’t take me too long to find whatever Shay had been looking for; a return ticket for Paris, left only a few days ago, much later than Mrs. Richards has claimed. For good measure, I dug up some phone records and found a number he’d called several times, before and during his trip.

It made me feel like a _real_ detective.

She answered the phone on the second ring. “ _What’d’ya find?_ ”

“A mistress in Paris.” I couldn’t help but sound proud of myself. “A return ticket, and a number he called at least ten times in the past weeks. I call an affair.”

She chuckled. “ _You know, there’s a saying where I’m from_.” I could tell she was buying time as she dug around for something. “ _Not sure if it translates, but roughly it’s- Hold on._ ” She was gone for a second, and when she returned, she was holding something in her mouth, by her muffled words. “ _An innkeeper only trusts his guests as much as he can be trusted._ ”

“What?” I was only half-listening to her rambling while I tried to trace the phone number.  
“ _I guess it doesn’t translate._ ” Her voice was clearer, now. “ _Remind me that I need to get capless pens. You have the number?_ ”

“Yeah, but…” I was into the roadblock that was my limited language knowledge. “I don’t-”

“ _Give it to me._ ” The sound changed as she gripped the phone between her shoulder and cheek. “ _Best way to find out is to call_.”

I rolled my eyes, certain she’d sense it somehow, and relayed the phone number. “Anything else, _boss_?”

“ _Not right now_.” There was a beat as she thought, “ _Not unless you want to research the intricacies of crafting pearl necklaces._ ”

It took me a beat to realise she was joking. “I’ll leave that to you.”

She groaned, but I heard her chuckle as she hung up the phone.

It took her less than a minute to change her mind. _Find me when he lands. Need to intercept._

So, I set to work.

I used to think Shay hated the boring cases. I had all reason to; her fee for a _stolen necklace_ or a _missing ring_ is about triple that for a missing _person_ , and whenever she has to accompany Peter to a rich neighbourhood, she’ll first bicker and negotiate for any leeway she can get. (Once, she managed to convince Peter that she didn’t have to talk to a client, but that’s a story for another time.)

Recently, though, there have been a handful of higher-stakes _events._ (I might be able to tell you about those soon, once I discuss with Fox if I can without angering any international spies.) They made me realise a key difference in Shay’s way of thinking; yes, looking for rings and pendants and tiaras was _boring_ , and dealing with their owners was _tiresome_ and more often than not she’d end up antagonising one of them, but afterwards, she’ll mock them and go on rants about the aristocracy that remind everyone that she’s got French blood, and that are fuelled more by leftover energy than by actual anger.

And, of course, there’s the _finding_.

When she finds a ring tucked away in a couch cushion, she can show off and sneer and berate people that they would need a private detective for something any reasonable person could figure out. When she collects a stolen painting, she can gather all suspects in a room and speech and point fingers and reveal secrets as she wows her captive crowd.

When she finds a missing child, she stands aside and silently watches the reunion.

No, with all the boring cases, she can throw in her showmanship, she can focus on performing without worrying about the consequences. She can have some fun with it, solve the case and let it go. I think she relishes in the simplicity.

On the car rides home from murder cases, she’s always silent.

  
3

Just after one, Shay came in, take-away bag in hand and confused-looking man in tow. He looked well-off, the Rolex on his wrist just too big for his arm.

Carlyle materialised. “A guest, milady?”

“A client.” She handed him the food. “I was near the airport, so I brought lunch.”

“I’ll plate it right away, ma’am.” With a small bow, he disappeared. It seemed he was in the mood to mess with her.

She turned to the man. “To be honest, I expected him to yell at me for kidnapping you.”

“You _kidnapped_ him?” I couldn’t stay silent. This was what she meant with _intercept_ , I realised.

“Only a little bit.” She turned to me. “Aiden, this is Mr Richards.”

“To be fair, she was really polite about it.” He shook my hand. “Only threatened me a little bit. You must be the one who has proof of me not being in Dubai?”

“That I am.” I offered my most charming smile. “Though I promise not to tell your wife.”

“I don’t.” She intercepted cheerfully. “Call Peter, see if he’s joining us. I can’t interview this guy without him.” She pulled a face. “Officially.”

“Too bad.” Mr Richardson smiled, seemingly not too bothered by getting kidnapped. Might’ve been the mansion’s effect. “We’ll have to have lunch, then, don’t you think?” 

“A grand idea.” She gestured past me. “Kitchen’s through here. If we hurry, we might be in time to save some dumplings.”

The man laughed heartily, even though it wasn’t _that_ good of a joke, and I was left confused and desperately wishing for back-up.

Peter appeared about fifteen minutes later, ruffled and rushed and _hungry_. He barged into the dining hall, the one we only seem to use when there are guests and paused to glare at his detective.

“I ought to yell at you.” He took the plate his father offered. “Fire you.”

“Good thing I don’t work for you.” She handed him a container. “Mr Richards, this is DI Carlyle, my liaison at the Met. Peter, your witness.”

“You _stole_ a witness.” He shovelled food onto his plate angrily. “A suspect, even, possibly.” He glanced at the man. “No offense, sir.”

“None taken.” Mr Richards offered a smile. “She did kidnap me, technically.”

“ _Technically._ ” He turned to his father. “You okay with this?” 

Carlyle shrugged, “She’s having fun, she’s not hurting anyone.” He pointed at one of the empty chairs. “No talking shop at the table.”

“You keep saying that,” He sat down to eat, “But you’re cooking for suspects.”

“It’s takeaway.” Shay tried to lob a dumpling at his face with her fork. It went wide. I barely dodged it. “And I got it. Give me some credit.”

He rolled his eyes. “Good on you for getting the food on your way from _kidnapping someone_.”

“ _Yes_.” Carlyle interjected, “ _Food_ we’re _eating_. Sit. Eat. Fight after.”

As Peter reluctantly snapped his chopsticks apart, Mr Richards leaned over to me.

“Are they…?”

All I could do was pull a face.

“It’s complicated.”

The interrogation, or whatever it was, was in one of the spare rooms Carlyle had made into a spare study. (Honestly, I’ll never get over the sheer amount of _rooms_ that are in the mansion. It seems that we only use a quarter of the space we have, maybe even less. Probably less.)

The room had a big table and a set of comfortable chairs that didn’t scream _interrogation_ as much as they whispered _comfort_.

Needless to say, Peter wasn’t thrilled.

“You stole your wife’s pearls.”

Peter sighed as he opened his notepad. “Not the best wat to start an interrogation, but sure. Mr Richards, are you aware your wife’s pearl necklace is missing?”

“Fully, yes.” He dug around in his jacket, pulled out a paper bag. “Though I won’t call it _missing_ , per say.”

“Okay.” Peter started writing. “You took your wife’s necklace without telling her. Why?”

“Because he needed to take it to Paris.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Let _him_ testify, _please_. Why, Mr Richards?”

The man smirked. “Because I needed to take it to Paris.”

“You two-” He took a deep breath. “All right. Why did the ten-thousand-pound necklace need to be in Paris?” He checked his notes, “Come to think of it, why were _you_ in Paris, and not Dubai?”

“Oh, I know this one!” Shay leaned back in her chair, confident. “Can I get this one?”

“No!” Peter groaned, “I will glue your mouth shut.”

Mr Richards chuckled. “I’d like to see that. Still.” His face turned wistful. “It started about fifteen years ago, when I first met my wife in a bar on Malta...” 

4

“I can’t believe I’m letting you do this.” Peter had his hand raised to press the doorbell of the Knightsbridge home, paused to look back one last time. “I shouldn’t let you do this. It’s incredibly unprofessional.”

“Oh, come _on_.” She was leafing through my notebook, making sure she hadn’t missed anything before stepping inside. “There is no case. No theft, no thief, this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

“It wouldn’t be if you took more _boring_ cases.” He rolled his eyes, and his tone implied an age-old discussion I wasn’t privy to.

“I’m rich now.” She beamed, and it reminded me to look into _how_ , exactly, a woman like Shay had gotten all that money.

(It’s a whole different story, for another day.)

“I can do whatever the _hell_ I want.” She reached past him, rang the doorbell. “Besides, it’s romantic. Aiden agrees. _You_ agree, deep down.”

“Do I?” He stepped back from the door. “If I didn’t, it’d be too late to stop you now.”

The door opened.

“Did you find my necklace?” Mrs. Richards looked at them expectantly from her doorway.

“In a way.” Her smile was disarming, and the woman seemed a lot less bothered by her paint-stained clothes this time. “May we come in?”

Mrs Richards stepped aside, led us to what seemed to be a drawing room. A _fancy_ drawing room, of course, because everything in the house seemed to be made from marble and gold and whichever is the fanciest wood. Peter sat down in one of the lush chairs and gestured for Mrs Richards to do the same, and I sank down awkwardly on the chaise longue.

Mrs Richards looked up at Shay expectantly. “Did you find it?”

“In a way.” Shay started pacing, lazily tracing circles into the rug, hands steepled before her. “But then again, we didn’t.” She was enjoying it just a _tad_ too much. If it’d been a more serious case, it’d be highly inappropriate. If she’d had a pipe, it’d be a stereotype.

Mrs Richards pulled a face. “What in the-”

“Allow me a story.” She interrupted, “You already know most of it, but I have a feeling you’ll like it anyway.”

Peter rolled his eyes.

“You see-” She turned, slow, dramatic, “-The story of your necklace starts fifteen years ago, on Malta, in a bar whose name no one remembers, because everyone was very, _very_ sloshed. But you met a man that night, and you two snuck out and walked along the beach and you told him the reflection of the stars reminded you of pearls.”

“How do you _know_ this?”

“I have my sources.” She smirked. “You stayed in contact, and just over a year later he gave you a very special necklace, to forever remember that night. There was only one minor issue.” She pulled out a paper, a print-out I made from the account I found, and waved it around. “Your husband lied to you, Mrs Richards.”

“ _Ooh_ …” Peter had pulled out his phone at this point. It seemed he already knew the ending of the story.

“Granted, it wasn’t a big lie. Just a little omission, never really correcting you when you assumed things. Truth is, your husband didn’t have the kind of money to buy you a gift as expensive as a mid-range car. The pearls were fake.”

“ _What_?”

Oh, she’s _good_ when she decides to be dramatic. I was at the edge of my seat.

“He wanted to give you something special, something befitting of his very own pearl, but at the time, he’d fallen on some hard times. He wanted to make a grand gesture, and he did. And now, after he’s already given you everything, all this-” She gestured to the room, “-All he wanted was giving you some _real_ stars.” 

“Give.” Peter’s whisper was barely audible, just loud enough for her to pick up on.

She shot him a quick glare. “So, he told you he was going to Dubai as a cover, waited until you were out, took the pearls, and flew to Paris, where a _brilliant_ jeweller promised him he could replicate the piece.”

The woman was watching her intently, mouth agape. “How do you-?”

“I called the man.” She shrugged, “And I intercepted your husband on his way home. He wanted to sneak the necklace back into the house and into the safe without you ever knowing what happened.”

“Oh.” Her face fell. “That didn’t work, did it?”

“No.” The voice behind her chair startled her, almost making her jump, and she slowly turned to see her husband standing behind her, a flat velvet box in his hands. “It didn’t, really.”

He held it out for her and she opened the lid, slowly, revealing the pearls she’d missed so much, with one minute difference, almost unnoticeable unless you know where to look: tiny knots between the pearls, keeping them apart.

Real pearls.

Peter rolled his eyes up at where she’d perched herself on his armrest. “This is ridiculous.”

“Oh, shut up, you.” she leaned back, her entire body slumped over the chair like an overgrown cat. “It’s romantic.”

I had to agree with her. With her words, but mostly with the soft, wistful _something_ in her eyes.

(In case anyone is interested, we got to keep the fake necklace in lieu of payment.)


	5. To Whom it May Concern

Dearest reader,

I’m not entirely sure how to do this, really. I haven’t really spoken to you like this before, and honestly, I’m not sure I’ll do it again. It feels weird, addressing you like this. It feels weird, addressing you at all. But I feel like I need to address a handful of things before I continue with my recounting of events. So.

To whom it may concern,

Before getting permission from Shay and the others mentioned in this _histoire_ to document their relatively private life, I had to promise to keep a handful of things in the shadows, so to speak. Names, like those of the Richards, are changed for their sakes, and for obvious reasons, I will _never_ disclose the location of my work office.

(The reason, of course, is because Shay would actually kill me if people start showing up at her house. And after, Carlyle would resurrect me so he could off me again.)

Normally, this is fine, and something I can work around with a passing mention or a small rewrite. However, these restrictions do provide a small issue when writing about a certain type of case, namely, the cases that involve Fox and his ilk. The sheer amount of censoring done on top of the self-editing I’ve already done makes it that the story isn’t always as clear as it is meant to be. As it is, though, we have been working on this case for the better part of a year and it has become a regular part of our lives, and I do believe it is worth documenting. I do have to warn you, though: due to the sensitivity of the subjects, I’ve had to change some descriptions my censors deemed _too precise_ , as well as be vague about some locations and processes. Still, through it all, through this ongoing battle I’ve been holding to be allowed to document this story, I have been allowed to share one tiny little nugget. Fox has told me the secret to his codename, and that of others, and I have to admit I think it’s an ingeniously simple system.

It’s all about the searches.

Go on, try Googling Sam Fox. Try _Sam Fox_ _secret agent_ or _Sam Fox MI6_. You can even try iterations of _Samuel Fox_ , if you want to go to the trouble, and see what comes back.

The names are set up to be unsearchable. It seems that the higher up in the ranks a person gets, the more strange and common and unsearchable their name gets. I would not be surprised if I ever run into the Big Boss and he turns out to be named Couch.

The point I’m trying to make is this: The next case is going to be more censored than the others, and please, don’t be put off by the odd names that it’ll feature. I’ve tried to be as clear as I can be, but do not hesitate to let me know if anything is unclear still. I will do the best I can to relate the story as it deserves to be relayed.

With kindest regards, or however one closes off these things,

Aiden MacDowell


	6. The Case of [REDACTED]

No matter how hard I try, I can never be too sure what Shay did _before_. I’ve tried finding out in my own ways, of course, and I do know _some_ of her life before I came along, so I know she had one, but there seems to be a very carefully crafted cloud of mystery shrouding her life. Whenever I try breaking through the fog, I run into the same roadblocks I did when I researched Tom Donnelly, only this time Shay would not make a magic phone call to get me the information I need. As much as I try to wheedle, she does not budge.

There is a handful of things I do know, after months of research: Firstly, the cloud in her life isn’t just a few months of mysterious absences and black spots; it’s a massive, gaping hole of _nothing_ spread out around a massive chunk of her past. It starts sometime after she joined the army, during her first tour, with more and more details going missing in her files as time passes, a slippery slope that ends in an abyss of nothingness somewhere around the time she first came to England. From what I can tell, most of it was deleted after, as if someone was trying to make her seem less important.

The Grand Abyss of Mystery ends with Shay popping up as a consultant in police reports, renting a small flat in South-East London, and then eventually, getting a hold of a massive estate, but there is no way of working back from there.

Secondly, it seems that whatever happened, it’s some sort of shared secret. Fox, of course, knows whatever happened back then. I have fairly strong reasons to believe he was involved in it, reasons like the way he talks to her, like he’s known her for years even though there’s no trace of him in her past. Reasons like the way he looks at her on rainy days when her shoulder acts up, like he’s surprised she’s there at all. The way he’ll tease her, laugh with her, call on her whenever he can.

Then, of course, there’s Carlyle. Peter Carlyle Senior, who somehow knows when her moods are pensive and when they are dark, when she needs a distraction and when she needs a sounding board. It seems like he’s known her all her life, even when everything in their files points to them only meeting a few years ago. There is nothing, not even a crumb, to prove otherwise.

Maybe he’s read her logs.

There’s years and years of them, the oldest ones packed away in boxes somewhere, the newer ones neatly shelved in row beyond row in unassuming bookcases. It’s where I get most of my case notes from. It helps that she’s seemed to convince the Carlyles to record their lives with the same meticulousness.

The logs, especially the older ones, are hard to decipher. They’re streams of thought in languages I don’t understand, most filled with teenage angst and all so personal I’d never dare translate more of them. The later books are even worse, with ciphers apparently becoming a bit of a hobby for her, and the ones about The Grand Abyss are so deeply jumbled I can’t even make a little sense of them.

Thirdly -or fourthly, if you count the logs- there is just one thing. A name I overheard once or twice, a code whispered when no one thought I was listening. At least, I think it’s a name.

Fox’s boss, the one Shay had to call in to find out who Tom Donnelly is. There’s not much I can find out about him, either, except his old codename.

Fox works for England itself.

It’s not much, but it’s a link to her past. So you can imagine how excited I was when he called to cash in that favour.

Finally, I had the chance to find out _something_.

We were summoned to Vauxhall Cross without much explanation, and Shay’s face turned dark as we approached.

“This will be terrible.” She frowned at the building looming up at us. “Horrible. Tedious. Boring.” She seemed to consider something, pausing for a second before she turned to me. “He’s gonna get into your head.” She stated, like it was inevitable. “Try not to tell him where I live, yeah?”

And with that, she was out.

We followed a suited figure up stairs and through hallways, through a maze I knew Shay’d already memorised. A key card opened a set of double doors, and they closed behind us, locking us in.

England’s office was both exactly what I expected and exactly the opposite. one wall was occupied entirely by TV screens that turned off as we entered, the other side mostly dominated by a big fake fireplace and a set of comfortable chairs. In the middle of the room was a massive dark oak desk, with stack upon stack of files neatly lined up, and behind it, England.

He was different than I’d expected. Older, for a start. Taller, too, and thinner. As he rounded the desk to meet us, I noticed he was lean, slight, almost fragile. Age had bent his spine, but his eyes shone with an ageless wit as he took his in, his face carefully blank.

“Doctor.” he held out his hand. “I see you brought a friend.”

“I’m sure you’re already aware who Aiden is.” She glanced at the wall of screens. “Why are we here?”

“I wanted to see you.” He shrugged, “Meet your new... acquisition.”

“You didn’t do that with any of the others.” She moved closer to the screens, followed a wire back to the desk. “I like the new set-up. Very Big Brother.” She flipped a switch and the screens powered on, showing a handful of CCTV feeds.

“You mean Orwellian.” He seemed to have discarded me, decided I wasn’t threatening enough to matter.

“If I’d meant Orwellian, I’d’ve said Orwellian.” She didn’t turn, seemingly studying a feed of a busy square. “I can call you a power-hungry pig without your help, thank you.”

He straightened. “Of course.” With careful strides, he was back at his desk. “I apologise.” With a flick, the screens turned black again.

“Noted.” She turned. “You didn’t answer my question.”

He studied her for a beat. I didn’t see him move, but he must’ve done something, because the light flickered.

“There is a leak.” The screens flickered, too, changed to an overview of some offices, possibly somewhere inside the building.

She was unphased. “You have a leak.”

“Not _me_ personally, unfortunately.” With a minute movement, he shut down the screens, and I got the eerie feeling we wouldn’t leave the room in one piece. “If it was personal, it would’ve been dealt with.”

“Is that why you called in a _personal_ favour?” Her dull sarcasm wasn’t doing much to still my heartbeat. Antagonising the man felt unwise.

“I have plenty to spend.” His eyes landed back on me, a lazy leer as they settled into some familiar sort of bargaining. “Do I not?”

“And yet you came to me.” She circled his desk, flicked through the papers there. “A person who owed you exactly one favour. You’re using your three wishes on a pair of socks and a lolly.”

“One can never have too much socks.” He turned to glance at her, and I could’ve sworn I saw a smirk. “Less chance of turning into a toad this way.”

She looked up at him, studied him, eyes narrowed. “We’ll need a desk.” She decided, “And access to your databases. Databasae?”

“I’m not giving your hacker access to our personnel files.”

“Not willingly.” She glanced at me, and it reminded me that she’d let me break into restricted systems before. I wondered if I would be able to tell her no, this time. I probably should, if I wanted to say off watchlists.

“My _hacker_ will go fishing for a hole in your net, if you don’t want to let him in.” She decided, “I’ll make a list of likely inside suspects myself. Keep it close to my chest, and all.”

“That’s not-” He fully turned to her, now, hiding his face from me. “It does not work that way.”

“Why not?” It was a challenge.

“Because-” There was a silence, a long one. A _very_ long one. I had the feeling he was trying to convey something without giving it away to me. “You know why.”

She sighed. “Is there a place Aiden can work?”

He pressed a button and the door opened, a woman materialising in its place. She beckoned me, and reluctantly I followed, away from what promised to be the most interesting conversation of my week. As the door closed behind me, I caught Shay’s intake of breath, preparing for a tirade.

2

I spent the better part of the next hour in an empty office, with a wiped-clean computer, trying and failing to break into the government’s extra-secure system. (To be honest, however much it broke my pride, it’s a reassurance.)

After a small eternity, Shay joined me, silently looking over my shoulder like a teacher judging math equations. It was a while before she spoke up.

“It wasn’t an outside attack.”

“You don’t know that.” I had the sinking feeling she was right. “It could just be someone smarter than us.”

“Highly unlikely.” She leaned over, and I moved aside to give her access to the keyboard. With a few clicks she pulled up a login screen. “You think we can break into the front door?”

“Worth a try.” It would take a while, brute-forcing the lock, especially since I needed to find the right programs first. “It would take a-”

“Impossible, it’ll lock you out if you try to force it.” She turned the screen away from me. “It’s designed to resist all the fancy-pants digital hacking tools.” She was typing furiously, deleting things, thinking, typing again. “This is a job for good old-fashioned guesswork.”

“Educated guesses.” I got up, partly to give her privacy, partly to stretch my legs. “That only works if you know someone.”

“Or if you’re incredibly lucky.” She hit enter. “I’m in.”

I walked to the glass door, looked out at the hallway, feeling like we were about to get caught. “Which one are we?”

“Both.” I could hear her opening files. “You, neither. But what does it tell us?”

She was testing me. She does it, sometimes, more and more as time goes on, and I can’t say I hate it. “If it’s not an inside job, it’s someone who knows an agent. Someone who can crack a password within… five tries?” 

“Three.” She nodded. “Passwords are required to be at least fifteen characters long, with numbers and symbols and runes and all that jazz. So…?”

“So people choose something they can remember.”

“Problem is, predicting people’s propensity for picking predictable passwords is near-impossible.”

“Meaning?”

“Without actually knowing the passwords, we can’t know who would possibly guess them right.” She sighed deeply. “I doubt we’ll get that information from England.”

“If it’s a good system, he’s got nothing to give us.” Some light went off in my head, buried deep but shining bright. “What about guest accounts?” A big building like this, people must be coming in and out all the time. People like us.

“Unlikely. It’s case by case.” She sounded distracted. I didn’t want to know what she was up to, but I had a feeling it was best if I never found out.

“You know an awful lot about the system for someone who’s not allowed in.” I knew it was probably the wrong thing to say, sensed how she froze and prepared for yelling, threats, whatever. One can never be sure, with her.

She seemed to take a calming breath. Wait a moment. Breathe again.

“I would tell you not to go chasing ghosts, but we both know it’s useless.” She started, her voice carefully even. “I just hope, for both of our sanities, that you don’t bury yourself in it like others have done. You won’t find anything I won’t tell you.”

I turned. She’d leaned back to look at me, the computer no longer important. This was a big deal to her, it seemed.

(Bigger than I could imagine, as I was to find out later.)

“You’re sure of that.”

Her smile was as flat and humourless. “You’re not the first one to try, Aid.” Her eyes glazed over. ”Peter lost almost two weeks trying to figure out.” For a moment, she was gone, lost in the recess of her mind, but then she snapped back. “Hey, could you maybe-”

I groaned. “I’m not going to build you a backdoor to MI5.”

She smirked.

It took us another hour and a half to make sure there really was no way to break in without a password, and when we did, England unceremoniously kicked us out to grab a cab back to the mansion. Shay was quiet on our way back, pensive, and I spent most of the ride trying to glean something from her body language.

“He’s going to call you.” She almost-mused as we turned into her street. “Ask you to do things you might not be comfortable with.” I met her eyes through her reflection. They seemed almost sad. “I won’t belittle you by reminding you you’re allowed to say no.” She closed her eyes, set her jaw, braced herself. “If I ever _find out_ you’ve been working with him, you can apply for a job there because I can’t afford leaks.”

(To this day, I’m not sure if it was a threat or a warning.)

I went home, expecting to get a phone call the minute I was alone.

He didn’t call.

When I came in the next day, I found her on the floor by my window, reading from one of her old journals. It snapped shut as I entered.

“He call you yet?” She stretched lazily, rolled further into the sunbeam pouring in from outside.

“No.” I stepped over her, booted up the computer and turned on the kettle. “Want one?”

“I’m good.” She hummed, her eyes falling shut. “Probably shouldn’t.”

“Bad night?” The water boiled. Recently used. Huh.

“Something like that.” She turned to me, the sun flecking her eyes with gold. “We’re out of chamomile.”

I huffed. “You’re the only one who drinks that sewage, anyway.” I sat down. “Made any progress?”

“Some.” She sat up, gestured for me to hand her a paper. “You were right about the guest accounts.” She was scribbling as she talked, writing down what seemed to be a random list of words. “There’s a few set accounts, in case of emergency. They’re supposed to change passwords every day, but they seem to be computer generated.” She handed the paper back. “This is the list I could find. They’re old, but the algorithm should still be the same.”

I looked over the list. There were about twenty codes. “If we find the connection between these…”

“... We might just figure out who else could know.” She fell back, head thumping the carpet. “We shouldn’t be looking for one specific person.” She decided, “It’s impossible. We’ll set up a profile. England can take it from there.”

Sometimes, she really does make me feel like a secret agent.

3

I’m fairly certain that at one point in her life, Shay worked for or with England. Judging by the fact they’re still in contact, although strained, I’d say that their break-up must’ve been somewhat amicable.

If only I could figure out what happened.

I spent the best part of the day trying to write an algorithm that would spout out the right passcodes while she lay at the window, reading and dozing. She never allowed herself to fully fall asleep, jerking awake with tiny gasps every time she threatened to go under. It was, weirdly, both soothing and disconcerting, like watching someone gently drown in a puddle.

Around noon, Carlyle brought us lunch. It’s interesting, watching how gentle he is sometimes, how he seems to know exactly when to grab her hand and card through her hair and when to shout and shake her awake.

The next day, the rest of the week, was much the same, except that I received my orders from Carlyle because Shay was nowhere in sight.

At the end of the week, my rudimentary set-up was spewing out the right answers most of the time, I was starting to get a headache from staring at a screen, and Fox had appeared out of nowhere to loom over my shoulder.

Oh, and Carlyle had restocked the chamomile tea.

“You know,” Fox was lazily tearing apart his lunch sandwich, “This whole thing would go a lot faster if your boss didn’t insist on doing everything herself.” He popped a piece into his mouth. “Or letting you do it.”

I rolled my eyes. “This isn’t just about getting the algorithm.” I explained, for about the millionth time. “It’s about how to go about it.”

“Breaking into your own house is about finding the weaknesses in your walls.” He sounded like he was quoting someone. “But I can just give you the front door key. Shay won’t know.”

“Yes, she would.” I didn’t stop typing. “Did your boss send you to spy on us?”

“With obnoxious frequency.” He shrugged. “You should probably get used to it.”

I hummed. Fox was probably the only one of England’s employees allowed to get close to her. In every sense of the word.

Because he’s known her for longer than anyone’s let on.

I turned to him. “How long have you been spying on her?”

“Longer than you’ve been with her.” He didn’t seem to be bothered about the line of questioning. “I doubt it’s spying, though. I’ve always been very open about it. To her, at least.”

Of course they would have some weird quid-pro-quo spying agreement. “How long, then?”

He chuckled. “Aiden, I’m an MI5 agent. You’re not going to trick me into giving you anything.”

Well. “It was worth a shot.”

I went home early on Friday. For the entire weekend, I was waiting for my phone to ring. Nothing happened.

Monday morning, I was late. It happens sometimes, when I need to bring kids to school and day-care, and luckily, no one ever minds.

When I came in that Monday, Shay was back. She was at my computer, in her pyjamas, hair tied away in a hurry and face almost grey with exhaustion.

“I think I have a suspect.” her voice was gravelly, as if she hadn’t used it in hours. She turned as I opened up the blinds, blinked against the sudden stream of light. “What time is it?”

“Nearing ten.” I started the kettle, prepared two mugs for tea. “Have you been here all night?”

“No.” She rubbed her face. “Maybe. Unclear.” As she got up and stretched, I was fairly sure I heard bones crack. “It beats sleeping, anyway.”

“Nothing beats sleeping.” I was getting concerned. To be fair, with everything she gets up to, I’m concerned a great part of the time. “Are you okay?”

“Am I ever?” She groaned, “But you’re right. I need a break.” She pointed at the monitor. “I need everything you can find on Ellis McFarlane and his family.”

And with that, she disappeared, swallowed by the bowels of the house.

It was a lead, even if it was a slim one. Ellis McFarlane was an IT technician, with a mysterious gap in his resume around the time the whole password system was implemented. He had a wife, a dog -Tilly- and two daughters, one of whom seemed to follow in her father’s footsteps with a Bachelor’s in information technology. He was a likely suspect, even when I had no idea how Shay had ever found him.

Carlyle came in several times during the day, assuring me with strained smiles that yes, she was all right, and that if I collected enough on the suspect, I was free to go home, should I want to.

In all honesty, I didn’t.

Around three, Tristan showed up, dressed in some sort of sports outfit that stretched uncomfortably tightly around his chest. I decided that, even if I didn’t want to leave, I didn’t want to stay to see what would happen, either.

That night there still wasn’t a phone call. I wondered if I should stop waiting.

The next time I saw Shay, she was looking a lot better. Her arm was in a sling, yes, but her cheeks had colour and the bags under her eyes were lighter, and as she flicked through the file I’d put together, she seemed a lot more focussed.

“This is good.” She lingered on the last page. “You almost got everything. Only missed one tiny thing.”

Well, apparently she’d done her own research, too. “What is it?”

“His obituary.” She handed the stack back. “Come on, let’s go check out the daughter. You’ll drive.” 

Well, at least she wasn’t smug about it.

4

Ellis McFarlane’s daughter lived in one of those neighbourhoods where it’s evident everyone works in the centre of the city and no one cares about their gardens.

Shay took the three steps to the front door, examined the doorbell before she rang it.

“If she has kids, you do the talking.”

“Noted.” There was a stumbling beyond the door, a few muffled words before the lock clicked and it swung open. Ms. McFarlane looked frazzled, the boy on her hip pulling at her messy bun.

Well.

I stepped forward. “Ms. McFarlane?” I checked the paper Shay held out to me. “Doe McFarlane?”

“Ah.” She offered a tired smile. “Dolores, usually.” She leaned against the doorframe, hoisted her son up a bit. ”Can I help you?”

“We’d like to ask you some questions about your father.” Apparently, Shay could hold out not leading for about two seconds. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

“Sure.” She seemed unsure, confused by us showing up. “What kind of questions?”

“The kind you might want to answer sitting down.” I tried to offer her my most disarming smile. “Can we come in?”

She frowned, suspicious. “Who are you?”

“Shay Klinger.” She flashed some sort of official-looking ID, too fast to actually read it. “And my associate, Aiden. I work with the _organisation_ your father was employed at.”

Her voice couldn’t be laced with more double meaning, and Dolores seemed to pick up on it. With a sigh, she stepped aside and led us to the living room.

She didn’t offer us a seat.

Shay took the hint. “Do you know what your father did as a job, Ms McFarlane?”

“He was a computer guy.” She shrugged, let her son down. “Built security systems for the government, I think.”

“And he passed the torch to you.” Shay watched the young boy with a strange, almost scared, curiosity. I really want her to meet my kids. Maybe film it.

“I wouldn’t say _passed the torch_.” She sat down on the armrest of a chair. “I’m a software debugger.”

“The beauty of an ever-specialising market.” Shay took out a notebook. “Did your father ever share what he was working on?”

Something clicked. She must’ve figured something out, because her face fell, turned expressionless and hard before she answered.

“You’re MI5.” She stood, squared her shoulders, seemed to make herself taller.

Shay quirked a brow. “We work with them, yes.”

Dolores nodded. “You need to leave.”

“We just want to know what your father was working on-”

“I am asking you to _leave_.” She was full-on glaring, now. “You have no right to be here.”

“You are not wrong.” Shay was unimpressed, but I moved closer to the door, just in case. Shay ignored me. “I was banking on your cooperation to-”

“ _Leave_.”

“Leaving.” She stepped backwards, towards me, and I understood the hint. “Next time, we’ll call ahead.” I opened the door, held out my hands to make sure she didn’t trip on her way down. “Has been a pleasure, Ms McFarlane.” With one semi-calculated leap, she landed on the curb. “Have a great day.”

The door slammed shut.

She turned to me. “That went well.”

I huffed. “You think she’s guilty?”

“Honestly, no.” She peered up and down the street. “Coffee? I could go for coffee.”

She was avoiding something, I _knew_ it. “Coffee is good.” I fell in step behind her. “She’s our only suspect.”

“So we start over.” She slowed her step, moved to walk next to me. “I’m about eighty percent sure it isn’t her.”

“Shall I check her activities?” We crossed the road, made a beeline for a corner shop. “Just for the twenty percent?”

“Maybe check her GPS history.” She conceded. “See if she’s been near. I don’t want to put her through the wringer without some kind of evidence. England would-” She seemed to catch herself. “We don’t put anyone through that system unless we have to.”

“Noted.” I took the handful of coins she offered, ducked into the shop. Flat white, extra strong if possible. Same every time.

I handed her the coffee. “Now what?”

“We go home.” She sighed, “We double-check everything, see if there’s anything else. You see if you can place her near the hack in one way or another.”

“And we’re going to keep this from England?”

“I doubt he doesn’t already know.” She pointed at the CCTV camera pointed at the street. “He has his ways like that.”

“You mean he’s spying on us.” I huffed. “Is he a Bond villain? Or does he just act that way?”

“He’s Bond.” She rolled her eyes. “And you’re a British citizen. He has the right to keep an eye on you.” She thought for a moment, “Maybe he’s M.”

I let myself deflate with a big sigh. “He’s going to be a pain, isn’t he?”

She just pulled a face.

It took me three days to run every lead Shay could come up with while she looked over my shoulder, double-checked every single scrap of information we had, spent early mornings scouring through some sort of database she wouldn’t let me see.

By Thursday morning, she was getting desperate.

I dragged her out of the office as soon as I came in, feeling the day would be better for the both of us if she’d have breakfast. She went willingly, which was a good sign.

Carlyle was waiting for us with a quirked brow and a plate of cold toast.

“She’s been in there most of the night.” He informed me as he shoved the food her way. “Was hoping I wouldn’t have to come drag her down. Coffee?”

To this day, I wonder how he knows those things. As far as I know, he does sleep at some point. “Please.”

He pulled out three cups and started preparing the milk, his clanking familiar and soothing. Besides me, Shay relaxed.

“Number?”

She paused her chewing, a quick assessment. “Four over seven.” She decided. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

“Tends to happen when you forget to sleep.” He glanced over his shoulder to smirk at her. “Made any progress?”

“None whatsoever.” She went back to attacking her toast. “I feel like we’re running out of options. I don’t know where to go, anymore.”

“Ockham’s razor?” He poured the coffee into the mugs, joined us at the island.

“We lost the razor a long time ago.” She frowned. “It took us to someone named Dolores, but...”

“Shay is convinced it’s not her.” I looked down at the foam in my mug. “Something about _instinct_.”

“Gut feeling is just knowledge without conscious thought.” She almost-glared at me. “I don’t think she could’ve pulled it off as well as it was.”

“Grasping at straws.” Carlyle rolled his eyes. “You think it’s a Mr White-type situation?”

I stayed quiet. I’d had this exact conversation several times that week.

“I doubt it.” She frowned, “She’s too smart for that. Maybe it’s more of a Spectre situation.”

He huffed, “You’d believe there’s some shadow-government conspiracy going on over the _slight_ possibility you got something wrong?”

She glared at him as she sipped her coffee.

“Face it, you’re making this too complicated.”

“No, I’m not.” She set her coffee down with a clunk and crossed her arms. “When has any corporate spy worked alone? Kind of defeats the purpose.”

“Hackers work alone.” He shrugged. “They break in and publish what they uncover.”

“Aid doesn’t.” She gestured at me. “Many don’t. It’s easier not to be alone, these days.”

His smile was something soft and gentle, almost completely disconnected from their conversation.

“Isn’t it always?”

5

“You have nothing.”

There’s something terrifying about having to stand in front of England’s desk while he glares at my boss, two of his goons looming from the shadows. At least Shay gets to sit down.

“I gave you a name.” She glared right back, unimpressed. “I figured the professionals could take it from there.” She tilted her head. “Was I wrong?”

“You gave us one name.” He straightened, his shadow throwing a dark streak across the chair. “One person. No connections, no method. _Nothing_.” He moved around the desk, and Shay rose to her feet, seemingly on instinct.

“I don’t have the right kind of authority to find out more.” Their height difference must be more than a foot, and England was standing close enough that she had to strain to meet his eyes, but her glare held strong even at the awkward angle. “If you’d’ve-”

“Bring Doctor Goldfield to a clearance one room.” He took a step back. “Escort her if she needs to go somewhere.” He grabbed a file on his desk. “You always liked proving your theses.”

She gestured something at me as she followed the goons out of the room, rubbing her nose with a strange sort of wink. It meant something, probably, but I’m terrible at signs.

I was left alone in the lion’s den.

England was flicking through the file. “Mr MacDowell.”

Whelp. I was in trouble.

“Do you know what this is?”

“A file, sir?” It was a trap, that much I could tell. I just wasn’t sure where to tread so I wouldn’t spring it.

“A fairly thick file, yes.” He seemed to be sorting through some photos. “Want to hazard a guess whose?”

This wasn’t nearly as fun as when Shay tests me. “No, sir.”

He turned around, a picture in hand. “I can see why she likes you.” There was a shadow of a smile around his lips. “You have a good head.”

My heart was racing. Where was he going with all this?

There was a long silence as he watched me. I’m sure he wanted me to ask questions. I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.

Eventually, he grew bored.

“Do you consider yourself loyal, Mr MacDowell?”

I didn’t answer. I’ve been married for twelve years. I love my wife. There are certain questions you don’t answer without the other party present.

He chuckled. “Don’t worry, Mr MacDowell, there’s nothing I’ve found that’s worth tearing a family apart.” He dropped the photo onto the closed file. “I need to step outside for a moment.” He circled around me, stopped with his hand on the door handle. “You wouldn’t mind waiting here, would you?”

The door closed with the softest click.

Shay looked different when she was young.

That’s what the photo was: a group picture taken in front of some featureless building in a field. Everyone seemed about the same age, in their early twenties at most, and they were posing as if it was a graduation photo.

Maybe it was.

Everyone was wearing the same uniforms, army slacks that sat a little big around the shoulders as if they were waiting to grow into them.

And Shay looked so… happy.

Her arms were slung around the people next to her, and she seemed to be crouching one-footed on the girl sitting before her. It was silly, really.

There was something odd about the picture. When I first studied it, I figured it was just because she was so young, seemed so careless. Then, I thought there was something in her eyes that isn’t there anymore, some spark, or sense of levity, or something like that.

Then, after stewing on it for nearly fifteen minutes, I think I figured it out.

There is something there now, in her face, in her eyes, that isn’t in the picture.

There was nothing on the back of the photo.

Eventually, someone came to get me. A nice lady led me through the maze of cubicles to a basement, prattling on about the weather and her son’s piano recital and oh, how silly it was how some men always wanted to be the top dog and couldn’t take no for an answer.

The last comment didn’t make much sense until we entered the gym in the basement.

There was a ring set up in the middle of the room, and a handful of people had gathered around its edge to watch the match about to start.

I recognised one fighter as one of the men from England’s office, his jacket gone and his sleeves rolled up.

I recognised the other, too, of course.

How the hell did she end up down here?

I weaved through the small crowd of people. I wasn’t sure what to do; I couldn’t just climb up there and pull her out, right? She’d kill me.

Then again, if I let this happen and that guy hurt her, Carlyle would.

“Oh, hiya.” She waved at me, smiled briefly as she passed me in circling the ring. “You’re just in time.”

“The hell?” It was pretty much all I could get out.

“He challenged me.” She narrowly dodged his fist, fell into the ropes and kicked him away from her. “Seemed rude to decline.”

“What is this?” I stepped back, just a bit. She seemed to be in control. For now.

She swatted her opponent as he tried to grapple her. “We called it sand wrestling in my day. Or, well, mud wrestling, but there wasn’t much mud around.”

I filed the information away. Seemed important.

She turned to me. “It’s basically MMA without all the pesky rules.”

That sounded an awful lot like regular fighting to me. Well, if she was having fun.  
She smirked. “Watch this.”

She changed. it happened in a millisecond, but I could see it ripple through her. It started in her chest, puffing out, her spine straightening. Her shoulders squared. Her feet snapped into position as she raised her arms, ready.

The man charged her again.

She ducked, her foot shooting out, hooking around his. Grabbing his arm, she shot up to slam him in the armpit, rolling him over her back and onto the mat.

The man groaned. “Best of three?”

“I wish I could.” She planted her feet and offered her hand to heave him up. “I have business to attend to back home.”

Seemed like we’d be going home early.

“Did you get what you’ve been looking for?”

She asked it as soon as we were alone. It must’ve been burning on her lips for a while.

I swallowed, almost choked. “Did you?”

She sighed. “Barely. Not really.” She looked out the window. “They’re going to bring Dolores in for official questioning.”

“And what do we do?”

She shrugged. “Nothing. We’re done here.”

 _For now_ was implied.

6

I found the compound where the picture was taken.

It took me surprisingly long; Shay moved around during her training, and from memory, it was hard to estimate when the photo was taken. Of course, none of that mattered, because in the end, Shay saw me staring at a satellite photo on Google Maps, rolled her eyes, pointed at a building off to the side, and told me to go do some actual work, please, she told me not to get lost in that kind of thing.

So I took it she didn’t mind me seeing the photo.

(It’s hard to gauge things like that, how much she would mind anyone knowing. Especially when, in most of the mansion, all semblance of warmth and character is given by landscape paintings and collected artefacts, and there’s not a single photo of anyone, anywhere.)

I tried figuring out who the other people in the photo were, see if there was anyone I could track down and talk to. Anything to find out more about her past. If England wanted me to see it, it must have some significance.

I came up empty-handed.

Shay came in at the end of the day, saw what I was working on, and sighed.

“Come on.” She grabbed the back of my chair and shut down the computer with a few keystrokes. “You’re not going to find anything. Take a break. Go home. Charlie misses you.”

“I don’t think she understands the concept of ‘away’, yet.” I rubbed my eyes. She had a point. I’d been sinking too much time into this, I should probably go back to my real job.

“I know how it can be.” She leaned against my desk, face surprisingly serious. “It can be hard letting things go once you feel like you have a lead. But it’s a dead end.”

“You seem awfully sure of that.”

She shrugged. “Whatever England showed you, you need to realise he has a plan with it. He’s pushing you in the direction he wants you to be in. He’s gonna exhaust you, and then he’ll appear like some saviour with all the answers.” Her eyes were stern, hard, as they met mine. “Don’t believe everything he tells you. When he gives you a cupcake, it might just be a cherry bomb.”

“Weird analogy.” I decided I might as well go for it. “There’s a picture of you with-”

“With a bunch of other people in fatigues posing like we’re at a frat party.” She rubbed her eyes. “Yeah, I figured it was that one when you were looking at army compounds. You trying to track down the people in the picture?”

“Yeah.” Might as well be honest with her.

“Running into walls?”

“Yup.”

“You’re not going to find any of them.” She seemed sad, almost. “You’ll have better luck with their families, but I doubt any of them will want to talk. Or will even know who I am.”

Of course. Why would anything be easy? Unless… “Will you tell me, then?”

Something clicked in her, like a switch being flicked or a wall being pulled up. “Now that would be spoiling the fun.” She jumped to her feet and sauntered to the door. “Go home, Aid. Rest. Let it go.”

Of course, I didn’t.

(Well, I did go home. But I haven’t let it go.)

Dolores was brought in for questioning, and they sent the report over. She cracked after about fifteen minutes of questioning, admitted she’d used her father’s work to break into the system, but insisted it was just to see what she was capable of. Apparently, when we showed up at her door, she realised the scale of what she’d done, and got scared.

Shay had narrowed her eyes at her, tossed it in the paper bin, and declared “Lies” with a flat voice.

I saved it. “You still think she didn’t do it?”

“She didn’t do it alone.” She watched warily as I tried to smooth the wrinkles out of the paper. “You don’t break into a system like that just to prove you can. At least not without leaving a message.”

“You did.”

“It’s not breaking and entering if you use a key.” She smirked. “Besides, I’m special.”

“That you are.” I put the report with my other case notes. “What now? Are we covertly investigating a secret organisation?”

She quirked her brow. “Are you asking because you think we should, or because you really want to be like Q?”

“Both.” It wasn’t hard to admit. “You have a plan?”

She thought for a moment. “Call for Fox. Before I do anything, I need some questions answered.” She frowned, “I need to know this isn’t just England playing tricks.”

I still don’t understand why she seems so convinced he always wants to trick her. Yes, he’s a sly, conniving leader of more sly, conniving people, but surely, someone like that would be too busy to spend his time personally antagonising some private detective. 

Then again, I’m fairly certain Shay isn’t _just_ a private detective.

Fox showed up just as I was contemplating where to get his number from. I made a note to search the office for bugs. (I never found any; he keeps them well-hidden.)

I knew Shay was still busy with something in the kitchen, so I gave in to the temptation to pry.

“Your boss showed me a photo of Shay.”

He groaned. “Do not drag me into this.” He sat down, pulled out his phone. “I’m only here because I get paid to be.”

“Please?” I joined him at the table. “She’s hiding things.”

“You’re turning into a real detective.” He huffed, “I’m not getting involved.”

“I feel like your boss wants me to know something-”

“Then go ask him.” He turned his screen away when I tried to peek at it. “I’m staying out of it.”

“I can’t-” 

“You know where he works, right?” I had the feeling this wasn’t the first time he’d had the conversation. “Go bother him.”

“And stop fishing in this pond, Aid.” Shay appeared in the doorway, a tray in hand. “We made brownies.”

Fox sat up straighter, seemingly subconsciously. “This is one of those meetings.” He rolled his eyes, but grabbed a square as she walked past. “What do you want?”

“You’re gonna love this one.” Carlyle placed a tray of mugs on the table. “It’s a doozy.”

“You knew about this?” He eyed me. I shrugged.

The phone disappeared into his pocket.

“Let’s hear it, then.”

Shay sank down in a seat. “I need you to spy on England for me.”

“You know my answer to that.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “What else?”

“You need to keep me updated on the hacking situation.”

“Already done.” His suspicious gaze shifted down to the food in his hand. “And?”

She opened her mouth to say something. Paused as if she wasn’t sure how to get the words out. Her mouth closed with an audible click of teeth.

Huh.

Fox noticed, too. “Shay?” He didn’t look up, didn’t see the hesitation in her eyes.

“I don’t-” She huffed, “ _Merde_.”

He looked up at that, lingered on the lines in her face. “Fee?” His voice was soft, almost gentle. There was something there I didn’t recognise. “Why am I eating brownies?”

She took a deep breath. Her eyes fluttered closed. Braced.

“Is MI5 aware the report was botched?”

“Yes.” He seemed attentive, now, aware her real question was still coming.

“Was it done on purpose?”

“Yes.”

“Was it-” Breathe. Her fingers were tapping out an uncertain rhythm on the oak. “This whole thing, was it… a set-up?”

He took a bite. “Define set-up.”

“Did this- did England… Was this for me?”

“No.” In two bites, the rest of the brownie was gone. “Dolores is a scapegoat, and the report’s a cover, but this wasn’t for you.” He reached out for another. “He’s given up changing your ways some time ago. I’d hate to say it, but this is bigger than you.”

“Not that hard.” Even though she was sitting, she waved her hand above her own head. “You know who’s behind all this?”

He sighed. “If we did, would we cover it up?”

Her head slammed against the table. “ _Pute_. We’re in deep, aren’t we?”

He offered her half the brownie.

7

There are some stories you wish you never hear, some things you wish you could forget about people. The kind of little facts that make you think of people in a whole new light. When I was eight, I wandered into a conversation between my dad and my neighbour about how he’d lost most of his ducklings to cannibalism. When I was sixteen, in biology class, I learned storks pee on themselves to keep cool. Five years ago, a friend of mine accidentally left his fun room unlocked during a dinner party.

There are some stories that change the way you look at things, at people. Facts I wish I could forget.

As Fox was leaving, he gave me something, a few whispered words, a date and a newspaper.

And that’s how I found myself in the archives of the Coalville Gazette on a rainy afternoon.

I found the article he wanted me to see fairly easily. How could I not, when it was plastered across the front page.

_Local nurse killed in desert hospital bombing_

My blood ran cold. Above the headline was a small collage of pictures of a man -boy, really- that looked awfully familiar. There was a close-up of him in a dress uniform, smiling brightly at the camera, a shot of him peering against the sunlight in what seemed to be swimming trunks, and there, in the bottom-left corner, _that_ picture.

I wondered if I should read on. I did anyway.

_Coalville lost a beloved member of its community last Thursday when a bomb hit the field hospital Collin Everett, 20, was working at as a nurse. Everett was waved off last Monday, and had only been working in the hospital for two days when tragedy struck._

I felt sick.

This was it.

This was what England wanted me to see.

This is what Shay didn’t want to talk about.

This is why she was so sure I wouldn’t track them down.

They were gone.

All of them.

A tragedy, the paper called it.

I wish I had a word stronger than that to describe it.

I went home early that day.

I caught her alone on Friday afternoon. She’d spent most of her time in the kitchen and out of the grounds, probably trying to push the issues of the case to the back of her mind. There was nothing more we could do.

That Friday, I found her underneath a weeping willow near the mansion, tending to the weeping hearts underneath. It was almost poetic, talking about it there.

I knew she noticed me as I approached, even if she kept flitting through the bushes and carefully snapping off dried branches.

I sat down in the shade. “I found the article about Everett.”

She didn’t seem surprised. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Yes.” I shrugged. “No. Only if you want.”

There seemed to be a slight tremor in her hand as she snipped off a branch. “What do you want to talk about?”

“What happened?” I watched her back as she kept working. It was almost soothing, watching the muscles in her back move in time with her hands.

She snapped off three more branches before she spoke.

“We were a mixed unit between a couple of countries.” She started, “It was a hospital for an allied camp, and to prevent… stuff, the medics were a mixed crew. It worked, mostly.” Carefully, she ran her hands deeper through the bush. “We trained together for a while before we shipped out. We were supposed to… replace most of the other medics.”

“Relieve.” I nodded. It made sense, a changing of the guard like that.

“Yeah.” She put the shears down, her other hand still absently playing with the flowers. “I had some things to do, so I took a later flight.” She huffed. “I missed the welcome party.”

“Pity.” The grass at my feet was littered with clovers. I picked at them.

“When I did arrive, one of the nurses showed me around the area.” She swallowed. “We were on our way back when we heard the explosion.” Her fingers dug into the soil around the shears. “The building was flattened. We were the only ones left.”

I wanted to reach out to her. hug her, comfort her, but I wasn’t sure if it’d be welcomed. We don’t hug. She has Carlyle for hugs.

But I wanted to, so badly.

We sat in silence.

“I rebuild the medical bay.” As she spoke, her shoulders straightened into a hard line. “In tents, in the middle of camp. We wanted to make sure anything like that never happened again.” She gripped the shears as she heaved herself up. When she turned around, there were no tears in her eyes, no redness in her face. Every defence she had, pulled up and impenetrable. She even smiled kindly as she looked down at me.

“I’d appreciate it if you don’t contact their families.”

“Of course.”

She walked off. I couldn’t bring myself to follow her.

I looked at the bleeding hearts, gently moving in the wind.

Peaceful. I leaned against the tree. Peaceful was good.

How could I ever look at her again?

I don’t know how long I sat there, but it must’ve been too long. At one point, Peter came home. He spotted me and, without hesitation, came over to join me.

We sat in silence for a long time.

“You found something.”

His voice almost startled me, loud in the peace I’d created for myself.

I stared at my feet as he continued.

“It’s hard sometimes.” He was looking at me, I could tell. “You’ll hear something suspicious, try to find out more about her, and when she tells you not to, you dig in your heels.” He huffed. “We all do it. But-” He plucked a flower from the bush. “-when you dig for treasure, you’ll have to prepare to find shit. There’s a whole lot of shit to be found. We’ll have to deal with it.”

“How?” The photo was burned into my mind, and someone had written on it with big red letters. _They’re all dead_. How could I look at her and not see that?

“We keep going.” He twirled the flower between his fingers. “We remind herself nothing’s changed. Everything that happened, everything she’s been through - that’s there. It’s here today, it’ll be there tomorrow. It was there yesterday. Nothing’s changed, except now you know a tiny bit more.”

I mulled it over. “How did the Carlyles get so wise?”

He smiled, I could hear it. “A long bloodline of having nothing to do but tend to this place.” He gestured around us. “You want to know something that’ll make this whole thing worse?”

“What?”

“Inside that house,” He lazily got up, “Inside that great big _fucking_ mansion of hers, she’s terrified right now.” He held out his hand to help me up, “She is terrified of being viewed differently, treated differently, and that’s why she keeps all this stuff secret.”

It seemed to make sense, in a way. At least, we seemed to fear the same things. “How can you know?”

“She told me.” He shrugged. “I asked her.”

And just like that, he gave me the solution.


	7. The Case of The Hill House

I don’t believe in ghosts.

At least, I think I don’t. Being around Shay for any length of time has the effect of making you doubt your convictions, and the longer you’re with her, the more she works her way into your mind, like tendrils rooting around in its deepest corners and overturning what they find.

But I never believed in ghosts, and I don’t intend to start believing in them anytime soon.

Still, whatever happened last October is difficult to explain without some supernatural interference.

The challenge came from a friend of mine; we’d been spending a drunken night catching up, and naturally, I’d been gushing about my job. It’s still an odd feeling for me, not having to lie about what I do for a living. A good feeling.

It was when I recounted how we’d recovered the missing pearls when one of my friends challenged me. His boss had bought a house to flip, but the builders he’d sent in came back with stories about missing tools and strange injuries, and eventually refused to go back. Apparently, some of the neighbours had convinced them the place was haunted.

Then came the challenge.

If my boss was so amazing, such a good detective, surely, she could figure out what was going on, right? Surely, she wouldn’t be scared of a stupid rumour? Surely, an alleged ghost couldn’t scare her off, right?

So I, drunk, called her.

And she, grumbling, agreed to his terms.  
To this day, I’m not sure why she agreed. I seemed like a dumb bet, and when I called, I was sure she’d say no. But I have a working theory, one I’d never check with her for fear of getting my head lobbed off.

She must’ve been tired. Tired of drug dealers, and aggressive homophobes, and over-worried rich housewives that are involved in convoluted present plots, and mostly, tired of unsolved mysteries. Dorothy McFarlane’s hacking case seemed to linger, the knowledge that the real culprit was still out there, somewhere, weighing heavily on all of us. She hadn’t mentioned it since we’d decided to close the case, but she didn’t bother hiding her search history. I can’t read Coptic, but I know enough about politics to understand what she was doing.

She needed a break.

So, we set everything up. I found a suitable date, agreed to the weekend overtime, and made sure my wife didn’t know the _teambuilding company outing_ was actually _camping in a haunted house_. She worries.

Shay insisted on preparing our supplies, so on the Friday we were set to leave, I found a set of duffels waiting for me in the hall.

Carlyle was stuffing something that looked like home-made muesli bars into one of them.

I frowned, “You coming with us?”

“Of course!” He straightened, smirking. “This is an adventure, isn’t it? We’re not missing out.”

“We.” I looked at the bags. “We?” Of course, somewhere in the back of my mind, I hadn’t expected it to be just the two of us, but… who else would there be?

Peter came through the front door, answering my question with his big camera in hand. He held the door open as he greeted me. Shay was carrying a big basket of fruits and flowers. She’d really taken to the gardening Carlyle usually takes care of.

“Ready to go?” She looked me up and down. “I was thinking about dressing up, but I only have one orange jumper and I couldn’t find a great Dane anywhere.”

“Besides,” Carlyle took to sifting through the basket, picking out apples and stuffing them into one of the bags, “Pink isn’t really my colour.”

I looked down at myself, realised I was wearing a white shirt over jeans. Maybe I should’ve thought about it a bit more. maybe I could’ve worn a scarf.

“Oh, _no_.” Peter poked his father in the chest, “If we’d do this, I’m not the hippie.”

“If we’d do this, I wouldn’t cast Aiden as Fred.” She was knelt down, too, rifling through the bags as a final check. “Obviously, our team needs a dog and a Tris. Ready?”

“Ready.” Both men slung a bag around their shoulders. I followed their lead. Peter grabbed the last one before Shay could, glaring at her. “I’m not taking Tris on a ghost hunt.”

“Why not?” In protest, she grabbed his camera case. “He has the advantage of not being sceptic, he’s the perfect hunter.”

I sighed, followed them out. It was going to be a long car ride.

The house was settled at the edges of a moor and a wild forest, at least an hour’s drive away from the nearest village. That would be scary enough on its own, but for some reason, the previous owner decided to paint the Victorian farmhouse pitch black. It contrasted starkly to the forest as we approached, but as night fell, it seemed to disappear.

Shay took me to inspect the outside while the Carlyles set up camp in the living room. We’d be there for two nights, so Shay’d decided to build a campfire in the hearth and set up sleeping bags around it, and the men followed her orders.

We circled the house, her focus shifting between the forest line and the foundations, the hillsides and the house. Every few steps, she’d freeze, stomp, kneel down, sniff the soil or study a weed. Once or twice, her head whipped around like she’d heard something, and she’d glare at the trees as if something was about to jump out at us. When she spotted the back door to the basement, she spent a good few minutes studying its edges and grooves.

Eventually, she straightened, her eyes turning towards the darkening skies.

“Inside.” She decided. I followed her gaze, saw a cloud that looked a bit like a turtle. There was rain in the air. “They’ll’ve started dinner by now.”

As we rounded the front of the house, something caught her eye again. I could see the shiver run through her. Must be the crisp wind.

“That’s not rain you’re smelling.” She near-mumbled, reading my mind without even trying. She seemed far away, that look she gets when she’s desperately trying to smash puzzle pieces together.

The front door opened, and Peter poked his head around.

“Grub.”

“Coming.” She turned around, offered me a smile.

“You found a good one, Aid. This’ll be interesting.”

Carlyle made us a stew on the open fire, and we ate straight from the pot. It felt like camping when I was a boy. The world darkened around us, and Shay banked the fire. We went to sleep with the soft glow of the embers, Shay’s shadow a comforting presence tucked against the nearby walls.

The first night.

2

I awoke sometime in the night when something bumped into me. There was a muffled swear, and a second later, a torch flickered on. Carlyle was sitting upright, rubbing his elbow, and next to him, Peter was waking up, too. The light swung around for a moment before it landed on the empty bedroll next to the fireplace.

“Shay’s gone.”

Peter was awake in a flash. “ _Shit_.” He took the torch as his father went to poke the fire to life. “Do you think-”

“It’s two o’clock.” Carlyle reached for another block. “She probably went to whiz.”

“Charming.” Peter crawled over to her heap, his legs still trapped in his sleeping bag. “Her phone’s here.”

Carlyle stood. “Well, shit.”

The house seemed a lot bigger when we were scouring it with just our tiny lights. The stairs creaked like they were about to give away, and every door seemed to moan when we pushed it open. Our shouts were deafening in the darkness.

There was no answer.

I was panicking, and I could tell I wasn’t the only one. She wasn’t in any of the bedrooms. She wasn’t in the house - unless-

“The basement.” I hadn’t seen a basement door. There was no basement door. “There’s a basement.”

Carlyle nodded. “I’ll go.” He nodded at his son. “You go check outside. And you-”

He pointed back to the living room.

I went back to the living room.

The wait was hell.

I have no idea how long I sat there, my back turned to the darkness and my hands curled around the poker. The fire popped. The house groaned under the force of the wind howling outside. Cold was seeping into my bones.

The house was alive, and I was terrified.

Carlyle joined me after a time. He took the poker from my hand and stoked the fire.

I watched.

“She is fine, you know.” The fire threw harsh shadows over his face. “She’ll come back.”

I wasn’t sure if it was an assurance or a prayer.

“It’s hard to believe,” The fire sparked around him, “But she is a grown woman. A very capable one.”

The house sighed with me.

Silence.

“Did you find anything in the basement?”

He shrugged. “Locked from the outside.” He sat with his back against the wall. “Rest some. Get some sleep. You might need it in the morning.”

“What about you?” 

He closed his eyes, a tired smile wrinkling his features. He looked older like that.

“I’m used to worse.”

I lay down, certain an opening door would wake me soon.

I didn’t sleep.

The door did open, eventually. It had started raining, and the wind and water made the fire splutter.

Carlyle was onto his feet as the door slammed shut.

“Where the _hell_ \- “ He seemed to catch himself. “What happened?”

She shook her head, carded her hand through her hair and wrung it out. “Long story.”

“One you will tell.” Peter rummaged around, pulled out two towels and flung one at her head. “Now.”

“We’re all tired.” She slipped out of her coat and into her sleeping bag, settled herself back against the wall. “You need to sleep. It can wait until morning.”

“No.” They followed her lead, though, laying down onto their spots. They seemed wide-awake, still. Carlyle was still sitting up. “Keep it short, then. Make it a bedtime story.”

She was silent. I made myself comfortable, watched her.

I could be mistaken. It could’ve been a trick of the light, a play of the shadows, but I don’t think it was. The look that settled on her face as she spoke can only be described as _murderous_.

“Fox snares. Bear traps. Death field.” She closed her eyes, jaw set. “Good night.”

As if sensing it, the rain stopped. The world fell silent, the only sound coming from the burning logs.

We slept.

The next morning, I awoke with the sun to the gentle sounds of people puttering outside. The smell of fresh coffee permeated the air, and the soft crackling of the fire was a lot more friendly in the morning light. As I got up, I found Shay in the doorway, fists pounding away at a piece of dough.

“Good morning.” She didn’t look up, but she moved her legs so I could pass. “Have a good night?”

I groaned. I’m not much of a morning person.

She smiled down at the bowl. “Carlyle is making coffee.” She held it up to me. “Give this to him? It’s for lunch.”

I carried it out. The Carlyles were sat near the car with a small brewer, softly chatting. It seemed serious.

I approached them anyway.

Carlyle took the bowl from me and handed me a steaming mug. “Morning.” He shifted so I could sit down between them. “Peter was just catching me up about last night.”

“Shay found fox snares.” He looked grim, but nowhere near as furious as she was last night. “Nearly stepped in one when she went out.”

“We checked the spots this morning.” Carlyle glared down at his mug. “Nothing there.”

“Are you-” There’s no way Shay would be wrong about something like that. “Didn’t you see them last night?”

Peter shrugged. “Too dark.”

“Does that mean…?” I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to say it out loud. Either my boss was pulling a Jack Torrance, or-

“Someone’s out here with us.”

3

We combed through what felt like ten acres of woods and moors, but we didn’t find any evidence of someone having been near, let alone someone setting traps. We did find plenty of evidence of wildlife, though. I don’t think I want to know why Carlyle knows how to recognise foxes from the _traces_ they’ve left behind.

(Honestly, whatever that man did in a previous life, I don’t want to know.)

Shay spent most of her day _not_ sulking, dusting every corner of the house in search for secrets, or clues, or whatever it is she looks for when she gets in a mood like that, and then spent most of the afternoon staring at the basement door as if it had personally wronged her.

When we came back, Peter dropped a giant tree branch at her feet. She didn’t even look up.

“There’s a jack in the car.” Carlyle was already pulling out his keys as Peter pulled her up. “Let’s just break it open.”

“Never.” She pulled herself free and leaped back to the door. “I shall not be bested by a nineteenth century _door_.”

At that moment, she could not sound more British.

“What if it’s not nineteenth century?” Carlyle came back with a small pouch. Definitely not a jack. “Modern locks might be-”

“If this was a modern lock, I’d be in already.” She glared up at us. We all knew it wasn’t directed _at us_. “I just… don’t get it.”

“It’s a door.” It was a pathetic attempt at levity. I don’t have the rope to pull her out of a mood like that. “It opens. It closes. It locks.”

“No, it doesn’t.” She was staring at the lock now, forcing it to give up its secrets. “A lock locks. And this door doesn’t even open. It’s a lousy door, if you ask me.”

“A lousy door with a very good lock.” Peter pulled her back, grabbed the sleeve of her right arm.

She twisted, winced. “Don’t do that.”

He let go. “The living room floor is wooden boards. I doubt there’s any reinforcements.”

“We’re not tearing down the floor.” This time, the glare _was_ meant for us.

“Talk us through it, then.” Carlyle crossed his arms. “How are we getting in?”

She hummed, but at least she straightened. “What is the definition of a door?”

I looked at the offender. “Want me to look up a dictionary?”

“Give me yours.”

“It’s…” It took me a moment. It’s not something I think about, doors. They just are. “It’s an opening in a barrier, usually a wall or fence, that can move to make the opening bigger, or smaller, or close it off.”

“And how does it do that?”

The image of her hand running along the seams flashed through my mind. “Hinges.”

“There’s no hinges.” Carlyle leaned over, now, peered between the cracks. “They’re inside.”

“And what kind of door has hinges on the inside?”

“Safes.” Suddenly, the weathered wood didn’t look so weathered.

She nodded, “Or shelters.”

It was locked from the inside.

Night crept up on us. Somehow, the bread Shay had been working on had turned into a garlicky, buttery mess, and it went amazingly with the pasta Carlyle cooked up. The way he and Peter handle a fire, they must go camping often, but I just can’t imagine either of them outside of the cushy halls of their fancy mansion.

Peter conjured whisky and we shared the bottle while Shay dozed in the shadows. With hushed voices, we pretended to be mates in a pub, shared stories of follies past and teased each other with stupid things and drank until the warmth of the fire couldn’t compete.

The fire never died down, but we did. Somewhere in the night, we let the darkness consume us.

“Do you hear that?”

I startled awake. The room around us was pitch-black. Someone stirred.

“Do you guys hear that?”

A torch flashed on. Carlyle looked groggy, worried. Shay was sitting upright, wide-awake, frowning at the darkness.

“Shay?”

“It’s from the basement.” She tilted her head. “That’s from the basement.”

The world was silent.

“Shay, what are you hearing?” He was wide awake, now. There was a hint of fear in his voice. This wasn’t new to him, I felt.

“I’m not sure, I-” She pressed her ear to the wood. “That’s- No.” Her eyes seemed glazed over when she straightened.

“A violin.”

“She didn’t sleep.” Peter seemed hesitant.

“No, this is-” Carlyle wrestled himself out of this sleeping bag. Grabbed her shoulders. “Number, Shay?”

She huffed, and obviously resisted shaking him off. “Six and a half, I think? I’m not- Someone is _actually_ playing Peter and the Wolf beneath us. Listen.”

Probably to humour her, he leaned closer to the floor. He didn’t have to; the moment his ear touched the wood, there was a loud shriek, and then we all heard it. It was like an orchestra was trying to break into the room from below.

And we sat, helpless.

Eventually, it died down. I don’t know enough about music to tell you whether the song ended or if whoever was torturing us just had enough, but the sounds died down and all that was left was silence.

My ears were ringing.

Peter blinked. “Was that-”

“Not how that song is supposed to end.” Shay frowned, “That was-”

Footsteps.

They started faintly, far away and seemingly echoed through the walls, pacing circles in a room far above us. We were in a cabin. The house wasn’t that big.

They came closer, steps along an endless hallway.

The stairs creaked.

I couldn’t breathe.

Peter killed the torch. The room turned pitch-black. 

Closer. Circling us.

I could probably reach out and touch whatever was with us. I was frozen.

It walked between us. I could feel the thuds of its feet beneath me, could sense the swish of fabric near my face.

Next to me, I could hear Peter breathing.

There was a rustle from near the fireplace. Whatever was with us it seemed to be closing in on her.

I couldn’t see it, but I was sure Peter was bracing himself.

The footsteps changed, almost as if they were in-

The fireplace exploded in a bright ball of fire, blinding me in a sea of white.

The darkness felt as oppressive as the silence.

4

“Light.”

I could’ve sworn her voice was wavering.

“Light!” I could hear her getting up. Peter bumped into me as he fumbled for the torch.

“Oh, for fu- Peter!” There was a slam of something, a hand or a head against stone. “I’m-”

Carlyle pointed his light at the wall behind her.

She seemed scared.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen her scared like that.

It only lasted a second before she schooled her face into a familiar look of determination. “Bring it over here.” Her hand was still against the wall, clutching one of the bricks. “The fire- The hearth. There’s something in the hearth. Check it.”

Peter was with her before she finished the sentence. “What am I looking for?”

“I’m not-” She frowned, blinked against the light as if she only just realised it was there. “Just check?”

“What are you thinking?” Carlyle’s voice was completely even, as if we didn’t just all meet a ghost.

“A blast like that must’ve been gas.” She slunk down the wall. “Sudden onset, gone like that- there must be a pipe somewhere.”

Of course she was convinced there was no ghost. “What about… the other stuff?”

“Speakers.” She grabbed behind her, and next thing I knew, another light was dancing through the room. “Miniature ones, hidden through the house.”

I wasn’t sure she believed herself.

Carlyle got up. “I’ll check upstairs.”

“You’re not going alone.” She was glaring at him, and I wondered how much time was spent deciding who got to be the parent for the day. “Take Peter, Aid can search the fireplace.”

“You think we’ll find anything?”

“I doubt it, but you’ll have a better shot than Mr. Heart Attack.” She huffed. “Go on, go prove me wrong.”

I watched them leave before I started to dig through the fireplace. She watched me.  
Something occurred to me. “You think there’s a gas line here?”

She shrugged. “Ockham’s razor.”

“Do you think it’ll turn on?” I leaned back.

“Why’d you think you’re doing it? You’re the most expendable.” I could hear the smirk in her voice, but I still checked. “Besides, whoever is doing this, I don’t think they’re out to hurt.”

“Or whatever.” It was out before I realised.

She seemed to perk up. “You believe it’s a ghost?”

It seemed easier, like this. I couldn’t see her laughing at me. “You don’t?”

She sighed. My fingers were turning white. “What even is a ghost?”

I’d almost uncovered the bottom. “You want me to look up a definition?”

“Bad reception.” I could feel her study the back of my head. “Give me yours.”

“Why?” It was a dangerous question, but I could sense she was building to something and was too tired to dance.

“Because people use it loosely. Ghost of a smile. Ghost of the past. Ghost of a chance. Are you asking me if there’s a history here, or a malicious spirit?”

I considered it. My fingers danced over cold stone. “Which one do you believe in?”

I was expecting a joke, or some off-handed comment. I was expecting an answer.

She didn’t.

“Shay?”

“This house has a history.” She closed her eyes. “It’s ancient. Chances are, someone died in it.”

“That’s not helping.”

“And people lived here, too.” With a groan and a crack of her knees, she got up. “Ate in this room. Sat here. Talked.” She paused, “Loved. This house was living, once, breathing, and the ghosts of that will linger until the walls topple.”

That was… “So you do believe in ghosts?”

“I don’t know what ghosts are.” She held her hand out. I decided to rub soot along her arms as I got up.

I sighed. Clearly, I had to rephrase my questions. “Do you think the dead can come back to haunt us?”

She smiled, forced and sad and made eerie by the lamplight. “Yes.” She rubbed her fingers together. “But if they did like in the movies, I’d have people following me around everywhere.” She seemed to realise what she was doing and rubbed her hand on her jeans.

My mother told me something once. We’re always so occupied with today and tomorrow, we tend to forget people have a yesterday, until they do something to remind us. Of course, when she said it, it was about what she’d been up to in the sixties, but in that moment, I could see what she meant very clearly.

Usually, I look at Shay and see an enigma, the mysterious detective that goes through great pains to hide her history. But there, in the faint light of a torch in an abandoned cabin in the middle of nowhere, I saw the one thing I knew about her yesterday.

Standing in front of me, rubbing her hands on her jeans, was a former army doctor haunted by lost friends.

“I’m sorry.”

Her smile was genuine, that time. “You have nothing to be sorry about.” She looked at her hands, kneeled at the fireplace. “Come on, spot me in case they try to burn my eyebrows off.”

We didn’t find the gas line, but Shay managed to convince me it didn’t mean anything. Peter and Carlyle came back empty-handed, and again, it wasn’t supposed to mean something. As the sun cautiously rose beyond the trees and Carlyle started on breakfast, Shay ran out of reasons not to break into the basement, and Peter was unloading his jack from the car.

In the end, we didn’t need it.

Someone had unlocked the door.

Shay sighed, “Well, at least we’ll know we’re welcome.”

“Do we need…?” Peter gestured back to the car.

She eyed the jack he’d slung over his shoulder. “I think we’re good.”  
Just in case, I grabbed the metal handle tightly.

She entered first. Her light danced over faded coverings and dusty furniture, casting macabre shadows on the crumbling brick walls.

The room was cold, almost icy. I felt watched, somehow.

She paused at the bottom of the stairs. “Something’s wrong.”

“Suddenly unlocked mysterious locked basement.” I shivered, despite myself. A roach scurried away from my lamp. “Everything about this is wrong.”

“True.” Carlyle startled me. “But I think she means the room.” He leaned past me to seemingly sniff at a wall. “Dimensions are off.”

“Look for speakers.” Shay had already crossed the room and was rapping her knuckles on the bricks. “A sound system, anything.”

“A hidden door?” I was being flippant, and everyone knew it, but Peter still frowned at me as he moved past.

“We might.” Shay was distracted, tapping the walls. “It is an old house. You people used to love stuff like that.”

I scoffed, happy to banter away some of the tension. “You people? I bet-”

I jumped as the door slammed shut behind me. There was a slide of metal on metal, then an audible click as we were locked in.  
Carlyle scraped his throat. “I really hope you’re right about that door.”

5

I was.

Right about the door, that is. This isn’t just a strange, philosophical statement in the middle of a recounting of a story. Shay found a brick that gave way and made an entire section of the wall turn like in a bad murder mystery. It led to a small room and a narrow, well-trodden dirt tunnel that ended in what felt like an oversized rabbit hole, hidden in a hill nearby.

Shay was suspiciously quiet during the whole trek.

I’d seen the footsteps, too. Big, heavy imprints probably belonging to a big, heavy someone.

From our spot on the hill, the house was just out of view, but we could see the sun reflecting off of a red sedan that wasn’t there before.

“Not a ghost, then.”

“Or a ghost with a driver’s licence.” She looked back to the dark tunnel. “Cover up the entrance and stay here.”

Peter grabbed her as she started up the hill. “What are you doing?”

“He’s probably waiting at the door for us to panic.” She nodded at the car. “He won’t expect us. This is our chance.”

Peter sighed. “How- never mind. Later. I’m with you.”

“You’re a _mountain_.” She assessed his height with a glare. “There’s no way you can sneak up on someone.”

“Try me.” He was still holding on to her. “You’re not going alone.”

She huffed, “What, you’re afraid he’ll _hurt_ me?”

“Probably the opposite.” Carlyle thought it wise to bud in. “Anyway, no man left behind and all that?”

“Not applicable here.” She wrenched herself free. “That’s the US army, anyway.” With a huff and a last glare, she straightened out her shirt. “Stay low. This guy deserves to have the shit scared out of him for what he’s pulling.”

Peter chuckled as he crouched. “You’re a vindictive little shit, you know?”

“You’ve mentioned.” I could just see her smirk as she moved past the top of the hill.

The man was sitting facing the door, a shotgun in the grass next to him, and he jumped about half a foot in the air when Shay greeted him from behind.

Peter placed his foot on the barrel of the gun. “Morning.”

The man looked perplexed. “You- How-?”

“Basement has a secret entrance.” Shay shrugged, “But you already knew that.”

“What are you doing here?” Peter carefully leaned down to grab the gun, opening it to see it was empty. “This is private property.”

“Not yours.” The man’s voice was rough and his face sour.

Peter tossed the gun behind him. “We’re friends of-”

“Doctor Shay Klinger of the seventy-second.” Back ramrod straight, she held out her hand. “Your fox hunting practises are unethical.”

“Ma’am.” Just like that, he seemed to have forgotten about Peter. “I’m sorry.”

I doubt he was apologising for the foxes.

She tilted her head. “Why are you here? Bit out of the way, no?”

The man shrugged. “Good huntin’ here.”

“My friend mentioned the wildlife.” She nodded, too friendly according to Peter. “But why here? Bit of a… dump.”

The man hesitated.

“What’s your name, sir?” Peter decided to go with her, anyway. It’s what he does; going with her, wherever that may be.

(It would almost be romantic, if it weren’t mostly about chasing killers.)

The man eyed him. “Georgie.” His eyes shifted to the gun on the ground. His hand rummaged in his pocket.

Peter raised a brow. I could see him square his shoulders from where I was slowly creeping closer. “You planning to throw those at us?”

The man stilled. His hand was still moving.

Shay followed his gaze. “They are a lot more effective when fired at speed.” With a well-practiced move, she dragged the weapon closer. “Let’s make a deal. You tell us why you’re harassing workers, and we give you your toy back.”

“That’s a very bad idea.” Peter sighed. “He was planning on shooting us.” 

“And if he shoots me, you can arrest him.” She kicked the weapon his way. “Do we have a deal?”

Peter leaned down to pick it up. “You’re not bulletproof.” 

“Ignore him.” She turned to Georgie. “Do we have a deal?”

He took his hand out of his pocket, empty. “New owner’s a prick.” He seemed sad, almost. “Wants to turn the place into a holiday home, or sum’ thing.”

“And why do you care?”

He shrugged again. He seemed younger, or more subdued, like the mere presence of a superior had reverted him back to a young private. His grey hairs were tousled in the rising wind. There was a storm coming.

“Been here for a long time.” He gestured at the house. “Pops lived in there. Had to sell it.” He huffed, and just like that, he was old again. “Used to tell us stories about people living in the basement. Proper history stuff. And now that-” 

“He wants to remodel it.” She nodded. “Destroy the history.”

Peter dropped the gun at the man’s feet. “What do we do?”

She took a deep breath, the wind filling her with fresh forest air. “We go home.”

I’m not entirely sure what happened next. We went back to London, and Peter had to report Georgie. He was tracked down and admitted harassing the workers, placing fox traps and -in his words - playing little tunes to scare them off. He was slapped with a fifteen thousand pound fine for damages, but then it just… disappeared. Someone paid the fines. Someone bought the house from my friend’s boss. _Someone_ went to great pains to make sure Georgie didn’t suffer any consequences.

(I hope I don’t have to spell it out for you.)

I just don’t understand why. I don’t know why she’d want to make all of it disappear. Why this man just gets to walk free. But honestly, it’s not what bugs me most about the whole ordeal. It’s not what’s keeping me up at night. I’m sure she had her reasons to do what she did, she always does.

What bugs me most is that those footsteps were fresh.

And Georgie is a size seven.


	8. that one Oxford case

This one is going to be a bit different from the others.

I never really take requests for stories. I never really discuss which ones I’m going to write out beforehand. Sometimes, I ask permission, but often, Shay and the Carlyles and the others find out at the same time as you.

This one is a bit different.

Shay told me to write this one down. Told me it’d be good for me. Therapeutic. Told me it was this or actual therapy, or both.

I can’t sleep, lately. It started with images popping up when I closed my eyes, but then the nightmares started. I’ve been spending more and more time at work, because I don’t want my wife to see me like this. I don’t want my daughter to see me like this. And now, it’s nine o’clock, I’m at my desk, and I’m writing. Because my boss told me so.

I bet she never has to deal with stuff like this. I bet she’s used to it. Desensitised.

So, this one will be a bit different.

It all started with a phone call.

Peter got called as we were having lunch, and the conversation was short, one-sided. He muted the talk, then turned to Shay. She was already at attention.

“It’s... Cambridge.” He seemed hesitant. “A woman named Evangeline Brown asked for you. Says she knows you. That you can help her.”

“She does.” Shay didn’t make a move to grab the phone. “Help with what?”

“I’m… not sure.” He frowned. “They’re not saying much.”

“Why is she at the PD?” She stood, and I took it as a sign to pack up. Time for a road trip.

Peter stood, too. “Apparently, she was witness to a murder.” He rummaged through his pockets, pulled out the keys to his old Saab. “Come on, I’ll escort you.”

“Make it official police business?” She frowned. “You better fill me in on the way, then.”

And we were off.

I’d never been to Cambridge, but it was obvious it wasn’t Shay’s first trip. It was obvious Peter knew it, too. The tension in the car was heavy, and the silence oppressing.

Eventually, Peter spoke.

“Are you sure you’re up for this?”

She chewed her cheek. “Evie wouldn’t call for me if she didn’t think it necessary.”

“I can take on the talking.” He offered, his voice softer than I’d ever heard it. I could see his father in him, then. He’d done a good job, raising a son like that. “Let you do your thing.” 

“Thank you.”

His phone buzzed, and she read the incoming message. “They want us to meet them at the crime scene.” From my spot in the back seat, I could see her eyes squeeze shut. “It’s at the church.”

There was a pause. “It’s Cambridge.”

She groaned and leaned forward to put his phone in its holder, a navigation app already open. “Go to St. Peter of the Open Gates.” She turned to the window, readying herself for a nap. “Plenty of parking there, too.”

Peter didn’t respond, but I did see the way he patted her leg as he switched gears.

The Open Gates church was situated in a modern building on the outskirts of town, with a big car park out front and what seemed like a gated garden out back. The car park housed a handful of police cars and officers loitering around, and the entrance to the building was cordoned off with yellow tape.

As Peter parked, Shay turned to me. “You’re free to stay out here.” She assured me, “Talk to the police, witnesses, stuff like that. You don’t have to go in.”

It felt like a challenge. I was so close to _something,_ something Shay had a past with, and she wanted me to stay outside. She was pushing me away, pushing me out.

“I can handle it.”

(I couldn’t. I can’t.)

In hindsight, she was just looking after me. But it’s easy, saying that in hindsight. I made a mistake.

(Shay says don’t linger on that, don’t blame myself. It was a combination of circumstances, and at least partly her fault for not being clear enough. I disagree.)

We got out, and immediately one of the officers approached us. Peter talked to him, showed him his badge and introduced us while Shay stood to the side, seemingly distracted, surveying the scene.

My eyes kept straying back to the two suited men loitering near a hearse.

There was a squeal from behind us, and Shay whipped around like she’d heard a gunshot. A woman in her early sixties, her warm and cheery personality radiating out through her bright-yellow top and floral hairpiece, came barrelling our way over the lot.

Peter didn’t stop her. I expected him to stop her.

She grabbed Shay, and pulled her into a firm hug, nearly lifting her off the ground, all while giggling like a schoolgirl and cooing like a new grandmother. Shay didn’t fight it.

“Oh, lookit you!” She put her down, grabbed her by the shoulders and seemed to assess her entire body. “You’re so grown-up! Looking like a proper adult, you! Trevor mentioned someone’s been looking after you, but we’ll need to put some meat on your bones before you-”

I could see Shay physically resist the urge to cringe away from the grip on her shoulder.

Peter cleared his throat. “Ms. Evangeline Brown, I presume?”

“Oh, call me Evie.” She grabbed his hand in both of hers, shaking it like a limp doll. “Or Ms. Brown. Never Evie Brown, though, that’d be horrible. Awful business, my parents only found out when I was two. Never really were history buffs, they-” 

Shay coughed. “This is DI Peter Carlyle, from Scotland Yard. He… lives on the estate with me.” Before Evie could cut in again, she continued, “What happened here?”

It was my cue to get out a notebook.

“Oh, dreadful, love, really.” She made a face, “It’s Victor Roberts -remember him? His wife always baked those lemon squares you liked- he’s been tending the garden lately, came in early in Sundays to tend the roses, always made them look so lovely-”

“Evie?”

“Right.” She nodded, “So sorry, love, we really must catch up sometime- I found him this morning, near his roses. Dreadful sight, really, I don’t think I can describe it.” She hiccupped, and Peter pulled out a packet of tissues.

Shay gave her a moment before she asked the question that’d been burning on our minds since the phone call.

“Why’d you call for me?”

Something in the woman changed. First, she stilled. Then, a strange succession of intense sadness and parental pride passed her face before it settled on a general sort of warmth.

“I’ve been following your work.” She admitted. “Even though you’re making it hard. You could do good work here.”

“I could’ve-” She stopped herself, studied her with the kind of focus that always makes me fidget. “You just wanted to see me.”

“We do miss you.” She swung her hands as if she wasn’t sure she was allowed to reach out. “Some of us do miss you.”

Shay huffed. I had a feeling there’s more she wanted to say, an argument she wasn’t willing to have in public, a wound she didn’t want to reopen in front of me.

She scraped her throat. “I’ll go have a look, now.” She gestured at me, vaguely. “Aiden here will take your statement, I’ll read it later. Pete?”

“Yup.” he led her past the tape, past the people, and into the building, leaving me.

Evie sighed. “She’s still a handful, isn’t she?”  
I frowned. I wanted to agree with her, but- “Ma’am, she’s my boss.”

2

Evie couldn’t tell me much Shay wouldn’t figure out herself, aside from that she still needed to call Mrs. Roberts and bring the bad news, maybe arrange for someone to pick her up. The news would spread quickly, she told me. Once all the police would clear, the place would be flooded with people laying flowers and sharing stories. It seemed like a tight-knit community.

And it seemed Shay had been a part of it, once.

But I could find out about that later.

I was convinced she was hiding something from me inside the church. So, inside I went.

I shouldn’t have.

There were a couple of police officers in the small church hall, busy enough with files and papers to completely ignore me. Behind the ancient-looking pulpit, a draft blew at a dark red curtain, revealing the back garden.

(I haven’t been to churches enough to be comfortable with them, or to know what’s normal, but I’m fairly certain not all of them have a garden. Especially not one as well-kept and diverse as this one. It was a community project, I found out later; people would bring in seeds or small cuttings and the church would nourish them, like some sort of symbol of growing together. A lovely idea.)

I rounded past a dry summer lilac and- well.

I spotted him. It. Him.

Evie was right. It is hard to describe.

I thought I knew what dead people looked like. When I was young, I’d seen my grandparents sleeping in their coffins before they were cremated. I’d seen my uncle awkwardly fill his one good suit only a few months before. I always found it a bit eerie, how much they looked like they were asleep.

This man was not asleep.

He was dead.

He was sprawled, fallen on the floor, one arm trapped beneath his chest as if he’d tried to catch himself. He was looking right at me. His nose was slanted, broken. His eyes were bloodshot, pale, glazed over and whitened in a way that reminded me of my old golden retriever days before she passed.

I met his empty gaze, and my stomach turned.

I will never forget that gaze.

Something touched my shoulder. I jumped.

“Hey.” Shay gripped my shoulder tighter. Almost forced me to turn away. “Hey, look at me.”

Her calloused hands on my face gave me air. I gasped.

Her eyes were green. So green. So kind. It’s the only thing I remember of the next minutes. Her eyes were so bright, so warm, so _alive_. They mesmerised me, guided me, and suddenly they were hidden from view by a soft cloth wiping at my wet cheeks, and just like that, we were inside. Alone.

She guided me down to a pew, her face still immeasurably understanding.

“I did tell you to stay outside.” It was almost a whisper.

I couldn’t answer.

She didn’t let go of my hand as she sank to the floor. It ended up on her shoulder, somehow.

“Can you talk to me, Aiden?” She held out the handkerchief, “Tell me what’s going on in there?”

“I-” I took the cloth. It felt soft like bedlinen. It was already wet.

“Take your time.” She clasped my wrist. “Just breathe, sit for a bit. Take your time, Aid.”

I cried.

She sat with me, silent. Time passed, it must have, but right there, anchored on her shoulder and in her eyes, I sobbed for an eternity.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw his.

She didn’t say a word. She held onto my wrist, fingers curled around my bone awkwardly.

I could feel my heartbeat pounding through my veins.

As I calmed down, I realised she could, too.

Eventually, I found my voice. “His eyes.”

It was a broken gasp, nothing more, but it was all she needed. She scrunched her nose. “They’re horrible, aren’t they?”

I huffed a watery laugh. “I’m sorry, I-”

“Don’t apologise." She sniffed. She was crying, too, silently. “Don’t _ever_ apologise for-” She rubbed her eyes. “Don’t. I should’ve known you would come look.” She huffed, “At least you didn’t throw up. Peter threw up, did I ever tell you that?”

“You- no.” It was almost alien, trying to imagine calm, collected Peter hurling at any sight. "What happened?” 

She pulled a face. “It’s… probably not a story you want to hear right now.” She glanced at the door. “It’s gruesome. but later, if you’re up for it. It would make a good story for that writing thing you’re doing.”

I chuckled. At the time, I’d just written out some loose cases, and I wasn’t sure if it would even lead to anything.

(Obviously, it did.)

The promise of a good story was enough of a distraction. I looked up and noticed we weren’t in the church; it seemed to be some sort of storage room.

I could still hear the officers, outside.

I sighed. “Does it ever go away? This?” It was a desperate question. I knew the answer.

She got to her feet. “I’m sorry.” She pulled out her phone, typed something, and mine buzzed. “It gets better, sometimes. Sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes it’s worse. But there’s help out there. Tools. Take them. Talk to people. Things like this, doing it alone makes it much worse.”

I looked up at her. I could hear Carlyle in her words, could imagine the lectures he’s given her.

And I remember thinking, again, that he’d done good.

I called my wife.

I know I don’t talk about her much in these, and honestly, it’s for good reason. I try to keep my family separate from my work. I don’t know how much people like England would care about pressuring me, but I do feel that the less is out there about them, the better. However, when I spend most of my day in a hastily booked hotel room, switching back and forth between calling my wife and the therapist Shay'd sent me, it’s at least worth a mention.

She asked me if I wanted to go home, if she had to come get me.

I wanted to stay.

(I love my wife.)

Around seven, there was a knock on the door between my room and Peter’s. It was Shay, hair wet and still smelling of hotel soap, and clutching a big paper bag.

“We got Indian.” She looked tired. “You don’t have to join us, but you need to eat.”

I didn’t think about it long. “You got naan?”

They did.

Dinner was easy. Peter filled me in on what I’d missed, tactically skirting around the topic of _dead body_ and steering towards the wake the church was organising.

“It’ll be outside.” Shay was writing in her logbook as she decorated a piece of naan with her right hand. A splash of coconut curry missed her plate. “Cold. Thick coats and woolly hats and long scarves.”

"And shades?” I tried not to scoff, “Or balaclavas? You have a recognisable face.”

“Most people do, once you get to know them.” She glanced up at me. “Besides, disguises are barely about the face.”

Peter saved a piece of chicken from the table and stabbed her hand gently to make her eat. “Ever wonder why no one recognises Clark Kent?” 

“It's all about posture.” She popped the bread into her mouth and looked at me as if it explained everything. It didn’t.

“Posture and dressing.” He seemed to understand she wasn't making any sense. “No one would expect the slinky, clumsy, near-sighted reporter to be a broad-chested superhero.”

“And no one will expect the confident, put-together detective to be the shy and quiet little girl they knew decades ago."

I almost snorted at the words. _Put together_. She was shovelling curry into her mouth without a spoon.

She did have a point, though. So we prepared for a wake.

3

I had to borrow a pair of slacks from Peter, and they were a bit long on me, but at least my black winter coat and scarf made me look formal. Peter had procured a flat cap that gave me a vision of what his father must’ve looked like in the nineties, and looked effortlessly rugged with his slight scruff and black duffle coat. We wouldn’t be able to blend in, anyway.

"It’s all about diverting attention.” He informed me with a wink that’d make anyone’s throat run dry.

Shay had gone much more understated. Her woollen scarf was wrapped snugly around her mouth and nose, and the rim of a matching woollen cap threw a shadow over the top of her face. It looked natural enough, like she was cold, not like she was trying to hide. Even from the darkness, her eyes were unmistakably green.

This wouldn’t work, not in a million years.

(Except, of course, it did. I should start betting against myself.)

The area around the church had transformed since that morning. I’d expected the darkness to create an eerie atmosphere, but the opposite seemed to be true. There were flowers everywhere, a sea of colours illuminated by the soft lights of thousands of little candles.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Her breaths were white tufts of steam in the lamplight. Even through the scarf, I could see her soft smile.

I nodded. “In a weird way, yeah.”

“Remembrance.” She nodded at the people standing around. Someone had brought a camping stove and was passing out what looked like hot chocolate. People were chatting, laughing through their tears.

Remembrance.

“You can’t have this without the awful stuff.” Peter grabbed our shoulders, gently, and then leaned over to rest his head on Shay’s. “See anyone you recognise?”

“A few.” She sighed. “Seems they pulled in plenty of young’uns, though.”

He seemed to hesitate. “Is… _he_ here?”

“He will be.” She stepped away from his grasp. “Go mingle, get yourself a drink. I’ll watch from here.”

“Got it.” He didn’t seem to want to step away. “Call us when you-”

“ _Go_.”

I went, in search of Evie. It was time to poke some bears.

Evie introduced me to her friends, a posse of middle-aged mums that were flitting around, comforting people. Evie was loitering near the hot chocolate stand, handing out splashes of Baileys and cheap rum to anyone who needed it. She handed me a bottle, and I joined her in her escapades.

“It’s a tough night for everyone.” Evie topped up my drink, and I wondered if we would get drunk on hot chocolate. Probably.

“Victor was a big part of the community. He gave bible classes, and his wife always organises potlucks. He’ll be missed.”

“His wife?” Even with everything going on, there was a case to work on.

She nodded to somewhere behind me. “She's talking to your detective friend.” She looked around, seemingly suddenly realising she was missing someone. “Did… Shay make it?”

“She should be around somewhere.” I shrugged, “She’s probably staying away from the spiked coco.”

“She doesn’t drink?” Evie took a swig, straight from her bottle. “Makes sense.”

Why would it make sense?  
This woman who hadn’t seen my boss in approximately a decade knew her better than I did. I see her every day, and I still can’t figure her out.

Maybe Evie could shed some light on the big, dark cloud of mystery that was her past.

And I had a chance to start at the beginning. I just had to be subtle about it.

“You knew her when she was younger?” 

It’s probably good I never became a journalist.

She sighed. “She and Victor really got along. She was a quiet kid, you know? Didn’t really speak. Always so sad. But Vic got her, in a way. I think it was the flowers. Victor… loved flowers."

I was at a wake. Digging like this felt wrong.

I took another swig of my hot chocolate. It burned on the way down.

“What was she like back then?"

Evie took another glug. She seemed determined to empty the bottle. “The conversation we had this morning was the most words I’ve ever heard come out of her mouth.” She shrugged. “She only visited, of course. Trevor was an active member, though, and that other boy- what was his name again?”

“Sam?” It was the only name I could come up with. Especially while filing away _Trevor_. Briefly, I wondered if it could be Peter.

(It wasn’t. of course, it wasn’t.)

“No.” She frowned. “It was… Damien, or something like that.” She took another glug. “He’d bring her by, if Trevor was busy. Never went inside, though.” She looked down at her plastic cup. “But he was always there to pick her up.”

Seemed like there was another person I needed to look into. Damien. Or something.

Evie seemed sad. “Something happened, didn’t it?”

She hesitated. “I-“

“ _Hey_!” Peter’s voice was unmistakable, even when I’d never heard it shout out in rage. There was a scuffle, a murmur in the crowd as it moved. It parted almost like a Red Sea as I instinctively moved towards the sound, leaving me a clear view of what was going on.

Shay was where we’d left her, except that now she was sprawled on the cold concrete, futilely trying to scramble out from under the heavy winter boot planted on her arm, her gloved hand gaining little purchase on the slab. Above her, all but starling in anger, Peter had his hands curled dangerously tight around an old priest’s trachea.

Well.

4

“Let go of him.” Shay stopped struggling, her hand wrapped loosely around the vicar’s ankle. “Peter.”

He didn’t seem to hear her. I wondered if I should interfere.

I could see the tendons in his hand shifting.

The vicar -or priest, or reverend, or whatever he was- seemed indigent more than anything else. “Yes, _Peter_.” His voice was rough with the force applied, but his sneer was hard to miss. “Let go.”

“You filthy, old-”

“ _Peter._ ” That voice again. The one that seemed to ram an ice-cold iron rod into my spine to straighten it, that compelled me to salute her and bend to her will, the one that chilled me down to my core, wrapped its icy syllables around my heart and used it like a puppet master would their strings. The one that made all people gathered around us guiltily look to the floor.

It seemed to snap Peter out of his haze. He glared at her, just a second, and stepped back. His hand dropped down, hitting his coat with a dull thud.

“He’s a hypocritical-”

“Swearing at a priest is bad karma.” Her hand tightened around the man’s ankle, and she planted her feet. Peter stepped back, seemingly suddenly calm.

He almost smirked. “Then what’s attacking an army doctor?”

“Stupid.”

She slammed her free hand in the back of his knee, pushing his foot up and rolling out of the way. The man windmilled, trying not to fall, and she grabbed an arm as it swung by, pulling him down as she heaved herself up to sitting. He could just about save himself from smashing his face into the concrete.

Silence.

Shay held up her hand. “Up.”

A murmur started behind me. It seemed that most of the congregation had just puzzled together what was going on. Evie pushed her bottle into my hands.

“You’ll need it.”

She’d pulled out her phone and was documenting the whole thing. No one went to interfere.

I took a swig.

Shay sighed. “Peter, help me up, please.”

He grabbed her arm, finally. “I thought you didn’t want to make a scene.” He seemed a lot calmer, now that she was out of immediate danger. He was back to smooth smiles and carefree suave.

She reached up to fix his flat cap. “I’m changeable.” She seemed to pause for a moment, stabilise herself on his chest as she took a breath. His arms curled around her protectively.

Near them, huffing and puffing and grumbling all the way, the old priest was scrambling to his feet. No one dared step close to help him.

He straightened, standing tall and straight like a spectre, clad in all black, pale and mostly bald and scowling. He reminded me of something I couldn’t remember the name of, something faceless and ominous. The only things that seemed to keep him human were his hooknose and the clerical collar peeking out from his robe.

“How _dare_ you.” He seemed to grow a bit as Shay stepped back to look at him, glaring down at her, simultaneously white-hot with fury and as cold as ice. “How dare _you_ treat _me_ -”

“You’d literally tackled me to the ground, reverend, I think I was in my right.” She was facing away from me, but I could see her fingers flexing. Peter’s hand fisted the fabric of her coat.

The priest’s face contorted. For a minute, I thought he would yell- but that would be inappropriate. Beneath him, probably.

Instead, he just _spat_.

It happened fast, too fast for any of us to step in. His face scrunched, something launched itself, and then he was in her face, looming over her and _hissing_.

“You filthy whore-daughter!” Gasps around me. She was holding Peter back with an iron grip on his wrist.

She scraped her throat. “Been practicing that for a while, huh?” Not breaking his gaze, she took off a glove and wiped at her face. “I’d think you’d come up with something better.”

“You insolent little-”

“Forgive me, father, but I don’t think shouting at each other will do much.” The hard edge was creeping back into her voice, faintly, and I wondered if this one was on purpose. Peter did, too, obviously, because he shook loose his hand and relocated it to her shoulder.

“A man died.” Her voice almost cracked. “A _good_ man. I’m only here because Evie asked me to find out what happened.”

“Evie?” His head snapped up, seemingly looking straight through me to the woman half-hiding behind my back. I took a swig. The priest sneered. “Mrs. Brown should never have invited you.” He looked her up and down and seemed to come to a disgusting conclusion. “You’re not welcome here.”

An uneasy silence had settled over the crowd. No one blinked, no one moved. Evie was gripping my shoulder as if she was scared.

“I know.” Shay took a step back, shook off the reassuring hand. Took a breath. “I never was.”

The glove fell to the floor, discarded. “I’ll get back to the hotel. Please allow my friends to pay their respects.”

Peter moved to stop her. “Give me- Shay, I’ll-”

“Don’t worry, Peter.” The crowd parted for her as if she was infectious. “Fais ton travail. Je te verrai demain matin."

The crowd closed behind her.

Silence.

“Well!” The priest turned with a broad swoop of his arms, nearly slapping Peter in the face. “Now that ordeal is over, let us celebrate the life of a man who _did_ do a lot to help our community. I suggest you take a drink, then we’ll head inside, and I’ll lead us in a contemplation.”

“Heartless.” Evie took the bottle from my hands and emptied it.

Everyone did file inside, though.

Evie and I both stayed outside during the service. I couldn’t quite bring myself to go back, not just yet. I have a feeling she felt the same.

It was good, though. We stood in the warmth near the doors, and she shared a new bottle of booze, and it didn’t take long before I didn’t feel the cold anymore.

In hushed tones, as to not disturb the service, Evie told me about the people inside. There was Elana Roberts, of course, Victor Roberts’ wife, an accountant with a not-so-secret passion for baking. There was a whisper that she wasn’t as devastated as she could be, that long work hours had caused her demeanour to chill and her eye to stray, even if she’d never act on it. I doubted she would, especially in a small community like this one, but I resolved to tell Shay anyway. I’m not here to make judgement calls; I just do what I’m told.

Evie also told me of a boy, years ago, a Uni student that came to church every week. He’d sing with the choir, play the piano and the trumpet in services, and he’d smile at everyone he’d meet.

Trevor, his name was.

And Trevor had a little sister. 

A young little thing, Evie called her. Small, and dressed mostly in oversized sweaters and comfy woollen dresses. Always hiding behind someone else, and always silent. Not quiet, she emphasized, but silent. She would stand silent, eyes ahead, during all the songs. Even though her shy smiles seemed approachable enough, she didn’t talk to anyone. Trevor seemed quite happy to do all the talking for her.

She’d make people jump when she entered a room, suddenly appearing behind them without a sound, smiling kindly while handing out whatever it was Elana Roberts had cooked up.

She still did that. She’d almost given me a heart attack more than once, tapping me on the shoulder when I thought I was alone. Nowadays, she seems to think it was funny. Then, it seemed to be a survival strategy.

“She liked being in the shadows, on the fringe. A wallflower.” Evie shrugged. “Makes sense, with everything that was going on. We figured she’d grow out of it.”

She did. “What’s… everything?” It’d irked me before, but now it was outright annoying. This woman knew so much more than I did.

Evie’s face changed. It seemed to cycle through confusion, surprise and realisation before it fell into a sad smile. “It’s not my place to say, love.” She patted my arm. I reminded myself that I’m a grown man. “You need to talk to her.”

I was growing a bit desperate at that point. “Can you at least tell me what just happened with that priest?”

“Reverend.” She pulled a face. “You _really_ need to talk to her.”

5

I didn’t talk to her, not until late the following afternoon. I assumed she’d already gone to bed when we came back to the hotel, and by the time I awoke the next morning, she’d gone.

Peter had pressed a lukewarm croissant and a steaming coffee in my hands before wrapping himself up in his scarf. Shay’d gone to talk to some people, he informed me, and we’d spend most of the day getting friendly with the local police department.

Thankfully, due to the magic of meticulous note keeping, I do know where she was.

Sadly, I also know what she was discussing.

The early morning was cold, she described, cold enough to nip at her nose and bite at her fingers. Still, she’d stubbornly refused to wear her hat and gloves. ( _Neglected_ , her notes said, something about not wanting to wake up Peter. Bollocks.) She said she wanted to watch the sunrise, but I think she just didn’t want to see the inside of the hotel for a while.

Eventually, willingly or unwillingly, she found herself back at the church. It was pretty much deserted now, the empty husks of the burnt-out tea lights floating around in the rising wind. There was a storm coming, but for now, the sun still tried to warm the concrete with its watery rays.

(She waxes poetic. It happens when she forgets to eat.)

The church was open. Someone had put a sign up - open for prayers. She didn’t really think about what she was doing when she stepped inside.

There was no one.

Someone had lit candles, carefully placed them around the room. They were dripping on the pulpit.

She sat on the front row. Watched the wax trickle down.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” His voice didn’t startle her. His soft shoes padded across the isles. “The Catholics had some good ideas.”

She didn’t move.

He placed something on the bench, just out of vision. His lighter clicked a few times before it worked.

“I’m a big fan of the robes. Don’t tell anyone, but they make it a lot easier to just wear cardigans and still look fancy. Especially on days like today.”

The drop of wax she was following hardened halfway down.

“Isn’t this the point where you start asking me questions?” He was moving down, the pews, his lighter struggling to battle the cold over and over again.

She inhaled. “Excuse me?”

“You’re the detective, right?” He placed another candle. “The one Evie talks about?”

“She talks about me?” She almost looked at him. Her back stiffened. “I’m flattered.”

“You _and_ your brother.” He paused for a moment, swore as his lighter refused to work. She could hear him turn. “You… _are_ Shanaeya, right?”

“Yeah.” Something of an etiquette must’ve kicked in, because she stood to greet him. (Finally.) “Shay. I’m… Trevor’s little sister.”

He smiled at her, bowed his head in a greeting. “Ethan. I’ve been vicar here for two years, now. I’m supposed to take over fully, soon.”

She huffed. “The old man’s finally retiring?”

“That old man had you on the ground last night.” He was smirking though.

“He surprised me.” She shrugged. “I’m out of practice.”

“Somehow, I doubt it.” He tried his lighter a few more times, then pocketed it and settled for just placing candles.

“I’m injured.” She conjured a matchbook from her coat. “Do you _want_ me to ask questions?”

He watched as she lit one candle and took it. “Somehow, I doubt there’s anything here you don’t already know.”

“You severely overestimate my involvement in your community.” She lit the final candle, and then, they were face to face. He leaned down to extinguish the one in her hands.

“I feel like I need to apologise.”

“Don’t.” With a flourish, she re-lit the candle. “None of this has anything to do with you.” The candle rattled dully as she placed it down. “You were, what, nine? And nowhere near here, presumably.”

He frowned. “This is my parish.”

“ _Not yet_.” She cringed at the echo of her voice, bounced across the walls. “Not yet. And even if it was, do you want to take responsibility for everything your people do? You want to repent for your neighbour’s straying eye, or-” She breathed, “Or for Victor?”

He ignored her last comment. “I’m their shepherd-”

“You’re a stand-in shepherd, at best.” She huffed, “A replacement teacher, desperately trying to control a gaggle of kids until the real one comes back and hoping they’ll pick up anything from your half-formed lessons.” She was looking at the candles on the pulpit, didn’t dare meet his eyes. 

He was silent.

She shivered. Pulled her coat tighter.

“Do you think it’s our fault?” He took a step, teetered nine feet away from her, on the edge of coming closer. “What happened to Victor Roberts?”

“Depends.” She traced a sticky trail of wax. “What do you think happened to him?”

“Oh, come _on_.” He didn’t sound angry, which was a nice change, she thought. “You knew him. I knew him. He planted every flower out there. I don’t need to spell it out, do I?”

She thought for a moment. “I refuse to believe-”

“What are you doing here?”

Neither of them had heard the door, deeply lost in thought, and the thundering voice startled them both. Shay’d turned on her heels almost on reflex, but relaxed as she spotted the form looming in the doorway.

“I told you to leave.”

“Leaving.” She pressed the matchbook in Ethan’s hands on her way out. In the doorway, though, she paused.

“Victor was found underneath a bush I asked him to plant.” She was frowning at her feet, the wind whipping at her cheeks. “Does that mean eleven-year-old me is responsible?”

“Yes.” The revenant pushed her out, slammed the door behind her.

6

I tried asking Peter about Trevor.

Several times, actually, over the course of the day. The first time I tried subtlety, mentioning how Shay never talked about this place. His gaze hardened and his jaw clenched, and the coffee sloshed out over his glove as he bent the paper cup. The second time, we were in the car on our way somewhere, and I was talking about my daughter, and I pretended to ponder something.

“Shay doesn’t really talk about this stuff, does she? Family?”

Peter huffed a laugh. “You literally spend your entire work week with us.” He pointed out, “There’s not much to tell.”

He did have a point, but I also had the distinct feeling he was purposely avoiding answering my question.

The third time was at lunch. We were in a small bistro, crammed into one of the corners, our coffees steaming on the tiny table. Nowhere to go.

“Who’s Trevor?”

He looked up from his phone. And looked. His eyebrow went up, and I’m almost sure he wasn’t breathing, he was so still.

“Trevor?” His phone slipped into his pocket with the sort of resignation that meant this could be a long conversation. “How’d you come by that name?”

I shrugged, turned the cup between my hands. The coffee almost sloshed over the rim. “Evie.”

He sighed. “Ev- of course. Is she still in contact, then?”

“Is Shay?” I overshot. He handed me a napkin to wipe my hands.

He shrugged. “I’m not sure. I think my father keeps tabs on him, but I don’t think she wants to.” Our food arrived, and he leaned back to give the waitress some space to put the plates down. He pulled a face. “It’s difficult.” He decided, “The whole thing’s difficult.”

Anything is, with Shay. “How come? They fall out?”

“More of a… sliding.” He shrugged again. “From what I’ve gathered. It happened before we met. They just… didn’t get along, I think. He’s abroad, she’s in a different time zone, you know how it goes sometimes.”

Except it doesn’t, does it? Not with family. Not like that. “Can’t they just… call?”

“They could.” He picked at his food. “They don’t.”

Something came to me. “And Damien?”

“Daniel.” He smiled. “Evie really talks too much.” His gaze drifted to the soft flurry coming down outside. “He must’ve dropped her off here a few times.”

“Do they talk?” There was a pickle in my tuna salad. I flicked it onto his plate.

“Almost every week.” He nodded. “He’s in LA, but they make it work.”

“So it’s _not_ the time zones?” We both knew it wasn’t. Of course it wasn’t. If she managed to stay good friends with a spy who periodically mysteriously disappeared and refused to tell anything about his personal life, a time zone would mean nothing.

Peter sighed. “You know she doesn’t like to look back.” Before I could comment, he continued. “And stuff happened. Here, with their dad, their family… you look at it from the outside, and none of it is enough to warrant any big response, but then you realise that a lifetime of little things stacks up to a mountain of shit. I don’t blame her for wanting to leave that behind.”

“What happened here?” I didn’t realise I asked it out loud until his head snapped up.

“Evie didn’t tell you?”

“Evie thinks I know.” I frowned. “Apparently, she assumes people _communicate_ with me.”

“And no one ever does, right?” He rolled his eyes. “ _Tad_ melodramatic, but fair point.” He took a moment to think, devouring half his sandwich in a few bites. “All right, remember the old guy I nearly fought yesterday?”

“The priest?” I nodded, “Or reverent, or whatever?”

“He’s an arse.”

“I noticed.” I picked at the tuna. I didn’t feel too hungry, anymore. “What happened with him?”

“Trevor, her brother, he went to Uni here. Got a special scholarship, or something. Came to the church every week. Shay would visit him whenever she could.”

So she still cared, back then.

(But that’s unfair, isn’t it? She still cares, enough to hide herself, enough to panic and freeze on the way over, enough to listen to a stuck-up old man when he tells her to leave. Enough to jump into action when called for help. She always cares enough to jump when called.)

“Except-” He frowned. “Except.” He thought for a moment. “Except Trevor’s her half-brother, and they look nothing alike, and Reverent Hooknose decided Shay was a… what was the phrase she used? A constant reminder of the worst sins? Anyway, he convinced the majority of the congregation to ostracise a twelve-year-old, and I imagine they scarred her for life.”

“That’s-” Bad. Really bad. Worse than I imagined. I was imagining she’d done at least _something_ to anger the people, other than exist. “Wow.”

“Yeah.” He almost looked angry. “Wow, indeed.”

And she didn’t talk about it. Wouldn’t talk about it. Peter probably only knew because he’s a detective and doesn’t ever stop pushing. He probably only knew because he talked to Trevor, to Daniel.

( _Daniel_. Too common a name to really search for anything online, but maybe I can dig up something. At least I know where he went to school. Later, though. I’ll finish writing this, first. Closure, Shay calls it. Good for the soul. She has a point.)

Mrs Roberts had invited us for tea.

I don’t know how Shay knew. As far as I was aware, she’d been no-contact for the entire day. Still, she met us when we got out of the car, eyes sad and cheeks red, and I realised she knew.

“Thirty-four.” She turned on her heel and marched into a garden. “Let’s make this quick, yeah? Her baking’s superb, but she doesn’t know how to season.”

“Murder case, Shay.” Peter rolled his eyes as he followed her.

She glanced over her shoulder as she rang the doorbell. “That’s why I’m letting it out now.”

A woman opened the door just moments later, her smile not reaching her eyes. The apron she was wearing was stained with -I assumed- flour and chocolate, and it seemed she’d hurriedly tucked away her hair.

“Shanaeya!” After a moment’s hesitation, she pulled her into a hug, too tight and too loose and stilted. “Come in, please, hang your coat.”

Shay tried to shrug out of her coat, stiff with the cold, until Peter helped her. “Thank you. Diana, Peter and Aiden, my… associates.” She took a breath. “I’m… sorry. About Victor.”

Diana nodded, took a breath herself. “I’m glad you’re here.” She hesitated, hopped from one leg to another. “My cake-”

“I remember the way to the living room.” There might’ve been a glance between her and Peter, some wordless communication but it was gone before I could be sure.

There must’ve been something, though, because Peter offered to help her in the kitchen.

I followed Shay.

7

As she probably would in any house, Shay made a beeline for the bookcase. I sat down on the faux-antique couch, watching her.

“I made your favourite.” Diana’d thrown open the door to the kitchen, and seemed to be doing something that involved a lot of clattering. “The pumpkin spice and orange cupcakes, remember them?”

“Haven’t had those since I was last here.” She had to raise her voice. “I bet Peter’s dad would love them too, if you’re willing to share the recipe.”

“Of course!” There was a pause. She seemed to be looking for something. “So how’ve you been?”

I almost laughed out loud. Some people were too bound by convention.

Shay quirked her brow at me, amused. “Mrs Brown didn’t fill you in?” Her finger ran along the spines on the shelf. “I figured she’d be handing out the penny dreadfuls on the street corners.”

She strained to stare at me as she talked. Am I a penny dreadful writer? I guess I am.

(How does she know _Penny Dreadful_ when she keeps forgetting the word _onion_?)

“She seems to think you’re a very private person.”

She wasn’t wrong.

“So what have you been up to?” The kettle boiled.

Shay’s hand had paused, stretched out around a group of books. “Oh, you know.” She carefully teased a book off the shelf, careful not to make a sound. “Same old. Finished an education, inherited a house. Not much, really.” She opened the book, and I got a good look at the cover. It was colourful, filled with flowers, the only dark spot a near-black berry in a corner. _Death in the Garden_.

“Inherited a _house_?” She came out carrying a tray of glasses and a tea kettle, Peter following right behind with the cupcakes. Shay placed the book back on the shelf, as if she’d never touched it. “That sounds like a story.”

“It isn’t, really.” Shay ignored the subtle cues to sit down. “Diana, I- You know why I’m here, right?”

“Of course.” She poured the tea. “Evie asked you to come.”

“I’m gonna have to ask you some hard questions.” She took the cupcake that was offered and studied it for a long moment. “Really… no fun ones.”

Diana looked up from her tea, and whatever she saw gave her pause. It must’ve been something in her stern expression, because her knitted pullover and jeans seemed completely normal, even if her whole outfit was a bit muddy.

“You-” She smiled, lip trembling, brow scrunching up. “You.”

Shay waited. Watched, and waited. Peter carefully grabbed a cup of tea and handed it to me.

“Diana, I-” Shay frowned. “We won’t judge you for your answers, and I need you to be honest.”

Diana nodded. Shay picked at her nails, seemingly gearing up for something.

“There’s rumours going around about the state of your marriage.” Peter leaned in, his cup loosely clutched between long fingers.

Diana whipped around to look at him. “Do you think-”

He shrugged. ”Right now, we’re looking at everything.” He offered a practiced smile. “Nothing you say will leave this room without your permission.”

And it won’t. She didn’t need much more encouragement, I can say that, and I can also tell you she never _strayed_. (For lack of a less sheepish term.) There was some foundation in the rumours, though, and it seemed Victor had picked up on them, too.

When we left, after a perfectly lovely casserole, Shay had gone silent, the kind of contemplative silence that meant her mind was reeling at ten miles a minute and she was likely to walk into a lamp post.

Peter gathered her under his arm and steered her. “Doctor looks at the body tomorrow morning.” His breath huffed out in white clouds above her head. “Should we be there?”

She stopped walking. I almost bumped into them. “Probably.”

“All right.” He poked her, and like he’d pushed her on-switch, she started walking again. “What’s going on up there?” He raised his hand to tap her temple. She dodged the wrong way, barely closing her eye before his finger collided with it. He chuckled.

There was a gust of wind. She shivered and turned into his coat. “I don’t-” She thought for a moment. “I don’t want to be right on this one.”

“Okay.” I could see his back move as his chest heaved in a sigh. “Start at the beginning.”

“I don’t-” I could see her flail, her gestures as confused as her voice. “I don’t know where that is.”

“Start in the middle, then.” He slipped off his glove and handed it over. “We have a long walk back.”

She huffed. “How am I supposed to know where that is, then?” She slipped on the glove, the other one disappearing in his coat.

Once again, I wondered.

We walked back in silence.

“I want to ask you something.” She was huddled against the radiator, a big mug of tea clutched between her knees as she slowly stirred in sugar. “But I don’t want to make things… worse.”

I looked up from my book. “Well, you know how to set up a question.” She refused to meet my eyes. “Go on, then.”

“At the-” She took a sip. “At the crime scene. Victor was lying beneath a bush.”

I hummed. It was all I could do not to pass out, or vomit, as the image came back to me. Still so vivid.

“Describe the bush to me?”

It threw me a bit. I didn’t think I remembered, at first, I’d been so focussed on the- on Victor. But it was there, as clear as everything else.

“Barren.” I thought for a moment. “Like sticks. No leaves.”

“It _is_ winter.” She nodded. “Anything else?”

“There were… buds, I think. Or berries, maybe. Hard to tell.”

The tea sloshed over the rim and onto the ground as she stood. She barely managed to catch it before it hit the floor.

“I need to make a phone call.” She frowned at the puddle. “Can you-” 

I rolled my eyes. “I’ll clean it.”

8

The next morning was… weird, to say the least. It seemed Shay had decided we didn’t need to go to the autopsy, and she’d packed her bags, ready to go.

“Go say your goodbyes to your new friends.” She looked me up and down. “Make it quick, though, we need to be out of here by ten.”

“What’s at ten?” I looked between the tense line of her shoulders and the resigned look on Peter’s face. ”Something bad?”

“The autopsy.” He shrugged. “Let’s just… Just do it.”

He seemed very tired.

It seemed some dots had been connected while I was asleep, and no one was willing to fill me in. The case was closed. Time to go home.

The trip home was tense, almost as strangely contemplative as our trip up. The only difference was that I was driving, and Peter had stretched out on the back seat, trying to catch some missed sleep.

I looked into the files a week or so later. The coroner had decided that Victor had passed from natural causes, heart failure due to stress. I’m not a detective and even I know that’s

Okay. I was planning to write some sort of ending, maybe speculate on what really happened, but none of that matters now. Nothing of it matters, because Fox just came in, completely unannounced, looking like he’d been chased here, and told Shay to sit down. Carlyle disappeared to the kitchen to make tea, as was his wont when situations got tough, and Shay ignored his advice and I wish she had, but none of that matters now.

He brought his news.

My ears were ringing, and time was stopping, and Shay had crumbled to the floor, shaking in her every bone and completely motionless at the same time, expressionless, breathless, pale.

Fox was on his knees, holding her, talking, but I didn’t hear a thing, and even if I did, it wouldn’t matter.

Nothing matters.

England is dead.


End file.
